Whirlwind
by eldarwen melwasul
Summary: An indignant huff sounding from behind Harry effectively cut short Oliver's inner rambling. Oliver sent Harry a questioning look only to have the man step to the side revealing a petite, fuming young woman; Hermione. Oliver mentally groaned.
1. The Prologue

I just wanted to leave a short note saying that this is a newly edited revisit to this story that I began a very long time ago. That being said, I want to let you all know that this is to take place as though the seventh book never existed, but after the character's seventh year.

**The Prologue**

Oliver Wood stared at the paper in his hands with a frown, his head slightly cocked to the side. Silently his lips formed words while his eyes scanned down the page. Between calloused fingers, the words **aily**** Pr****het** could be distinguished, the bold letters seemingly ordinary, mundane even. Yet if the photos were of any indication (this issue sported a shot of Puddlemere United's manager, Philbert Deverill, heatedly talking to a crowd of reporters), then the paper that Oliver held was anything _but_ ordinary. He paused his silent reading, a furrow in his brow appearing, before continuing down the article.

To any passerby, the frown merely signified that the man in question had read news of the usual disturbing sort- politicians embezzling funds, global warming throwing off the ocean's deep currents, an odd species of lizard becoming endangered, etc… Yet to the trained eye (including and not limited to his dear ol' mum and Newfoundland, Quaffle) Oliver was in a state of deep mental distress. A tic was forming in his clenched jaw, and his fingers were drumming out a furious beat against his thigh, each tap resonating with an increasing intensity. And then the paper was resting on the coffee table, the hands that were previously occupied now could be found running through the man's shaggy russet locks. With a sigh Oliver allowed his hands to slip down to cradle his face, elbows resting against his knees, while he considered letting out a scream. Oh yes, Oliver was in a state of deep mental distress.

Quaffle watched his master with mild curiosity. It wasn't often that he saw Oliver acting so…odd. Quaffle cocked his head to the side and perked his ears, letting out a yelp as Oliver flung his body into the plush cushioning of the couch. He lowered his head onto his paws and studied the dejected form of his owner.

At twenty five and three quarters, Oliver was a sight to behold…at least that's what all of the women he had brought to the flat said. He was tall and obviously athletic. Years of Quidditch had seen to that. Dark hair fell into chocolate eyes that sparkled with mischief and excitement, and a lopsided grin made his appearance practically fatal to the opposite sex. Except now. Now, the glimmer that seemed a permanent fixture in his eyes had dulled. Now, hollow cheeks formed shadows against the pallor of his flesh. Now, Oliver was exuding a wholly unbecoming stance of defeat. Something that, in Quaffle's opinion, was down right unacceptable for a man like Oliver to exude. It was time to intervene.

Quaffle raised himself up off the floor and shook out his furry body from nose to tail, ridding himself of any lingering drowsiness. What Oliver needed was to get away from the paper and walk around. Yes, a good walk would do wonders for the man that was currently staring listlessly at a speck of dust floating on the air. Quaffle's paws made a hollow thudding sound as he padded across wood floor to Oliver, nudging the man's leg with his nose. When Oliver didn't respond, Quaffle let out a high pitched whine and quickly shifted his weight between his legs, causing Oliver to snap out of his trance.

The man spared the dog a startled look, seemingly haven forgotten that there were other beings inside his flat aside from his own pitiful self. He took in the oversized dog's impatient pacing between the couch and the front door, before a rueful smile spread across his face. Of course. It was time for the dog's ritual nightly rounds of the neighborhood. With a grunt, Oliver hefted his body out of the couch's welcoming folds and made his way to the front door, his hand running along the dog's fur as an afterthought.

"Sorry abou' tha', boy," muttered Oliver as he wrenched open the door. Quaffle, thoroughly satisfied with his success at getting Oliver to leave his spot on the couch, let out a terse 'ruff' in response before prancing into the night.

With a sigh, Oliver allowed his body to rest against the door frame while he attempted to follow the body of his black dog as the animal ventured into the front lawn. His efforts were only made with half a heart though, for his mind was already recalling the article that had bothered him so.

Really, it shouldn't have bothered him _that_ much. After all, there _had_ been rumors for months, and Philbert _had_ spoken with them. It was just seeing it in ink…seeing it made it definite. Oliver rubbed the back of his neck, removing the kinks that had formed there since he had read the article. Now what was he going to do? Oliver grimaced at the onslaught of worries that question brought forth. Best save those thoughts for a different time. Better to focus on the now.

Like, for instance, now he was shivering. The crisp night air curling around his body spoke of autumn leaves and chilled winter nights that soon would be taking up residence throughout the country. Oliver peered into the night, looking for any signs of his dog. Seeing none, he pushed shut the door, deciding that when Quaffle was ready to re-enter, Quaffle would loudly (and impatiently) make his presence known. There was no reason for him to stand and wait for his finicky dog to return. Oliver made to move back towards the couch, but hesitated, his eyes alighting on light switch which controlled the dull bulb that hung over his front steps.

It's not like Quaffle needed the light. The dog knew which door was the one that lead to his home…yet it _would_ be nice to see if it was indeed Quaffle that was begging to get in, and not the embittered Pincher that belonged to his neighbor, Mrs. Wheets. So without a second thought Oliver flicked up the switch and headed back to the couch which beckoned him with its leather exterior and plump padding.

If one were to take the time to consider the act performed, the flicking of a light switch, one would presumably remark upon the simplicity of the task. Really not much effort is put forth aside from the lifting of the hand and the flicking of a finger. Yet, unbeknownst to Oliver, this simple task set forth events totally and invariably out of his control. Wheels were being set into motion, and from that moment forth, life as he knew it was about to change dramatically.

Had he been more aware, Oliver may have heard the sharp ticking of the souvenir Quidditch clock he had hanging above his breakfast table which, due to his slight hesitation, struck 11:47 pm precisely when his finger struck the switch. Had he been more aware, he may have taken notice before he swung shut the door a shadow slightly darker than the night lingering down the street, evidently waiting for something or someone.

Consequently, Oliver took heed of none of the above, thus rendering him utterly oblivious to the turn his life had just taken. What he _had_ taken heed of was the couch, and with a sigh he allowed his body to sink into the inviting piece of furniture. Maybe he could take a nap before Quaffle began his incessant baying to get in…

And it was with that thought that Oliver allowed himself to drift off into the depths of slumber. That is until an insistent _pat __pat __pat_ on his door jerked him awake and sent him careening off the couch and onto the ever comfortable hardwood floor.


	2. Chapter One

**Chp. 1**

Bellatrix fancied herself a reasonable person. Really, it didn't take much to please her. Yet she couldn't help but feel that this task was somehow…below her. She huddled deeper into the depths of her cloak, allowing the cavernous hood to further cover her face as the night's gale licked at the garment, threatening to lift it from her shivering figure. The only thought that pleased her now was the knowledge that as soon as _he_ decided to appear, they could set out to finish their task…or start it, rather. A twitch of her mouth was the only sign of the sneer that begged to break through the aloof mask she had schooled her features into. It wouldn't be much longer now, if _he_ would only show up.

No, no, she mustn't let _him_ bother her. The infamous _him_ that the Dark Lord appointed as her partner for this mission. The infamous _him_ that was, she spared a glance at the pocket watch tucked into the folds of her traveling cloak, twenty minutes late.

Absentmindedly she twirled her wand between her fingers, relishing in the feeling of the wood once again back in her possession. It had been a little over seven years since she had escaped from that vile place (here a sneer did appear), and she would be damned if she was to ever be locked up wandless in a place like that once more! So, to keep from reliving such a fate she would do whatever necessary to show the Dark Lord that she belonged at his side as his most devout follower, even if it meant having to work with _him_.

A hushed rustling sound jolted the woman from her thoughts. Instantly she spun, wand raised and ready to fight whomever it was that stumbled upon her, only to find a wand pointed at her chest. The two people balefully glared at one another over the tips of their wands before they ever-so-slowly lowered their weapons.

"Severus," spat Bellatrix, "I'm glad to find that you were able to fit time in your busy schedule for this."

Bellatrix allowed herself the small feeling of delight at seeing his nostrils flare and his lips curl into a snarl at her comment.

"Yes, well I had some pressing matters to attend to," he drawled before flicking his head slightly to the right, causing greasy strands of charcoal hair to fall into his eyes, "but I'm here now. So if you'd be so kind as to follow me." And with that Severus Snape stalked ahead, refusing to glance back to see if Bellatrix followed.

It didn't take long for them to reach their destination; a pleasant looking house whose chimney cheerily emitted tendrils of thick grey smoke. The wooden porch had steps leading up to a hunter green door situated next to an overhanging porch light. Tiny golden numbers on the left hand side of the door that glittered ostentatiously in the moonlight.

Bellatrix stood beside Severus, transfixed with the twinkling numerals. It was Severus that finally broke the silence that had grown between them.

"You know what we're supposed to do?"

She turned her head and stared at the man beside her blankly before finding it in herself to answer.

"I was under the impression that we are to do some research for the Dark Lord," was her curt response. Severus sniffed at her reply and reverted his attention back to the building before them. When he answered, it was with a tone most commonly heard amongst parents talking to small children.

"We are to gather information very precious to the Dark Lord…information that could tilt the balance in our favor."

Her lips, a slash of crimson against her porcelain skin, formed a tight line at his tone. Holding back a snarl, she snapped, "Of course I know what we're supposed to do. The question now is whether we'll ever get it completed. At the rate you're going, you'll have talked us to death before we knock on the door." Her chest was heaving by the time she had finished and her hood had fallen back, revealing rippling waves of ebony locks and cool, calculating eyes.

Bellatrix slipped her hand into the folds of her robe, her fingers brushing scrap of paper with a foreign script hastily scratched across its surface. It was the paper the Dark Lord so desperately needed answers to. And answers, they would get.

Severus inclined his head in response and made his way up the steps. A _woosh_ of air caused the ends of his robes to flutter sinuously around his ankles, signifying Bellatrix's sudden appearance. Side by side, cloaked in black, the two Death Eaters raised their fists and knocked together, their insistent _pat __pat __pat_ echoing throughout the deserted parking lot.

A clanking sound and a muffled curse revealed that there was some form of life behind the austere door. Bellatrix flashed a toothy grin in Severus' direction at the sound, before whispering, "And so, it begins."


	3. Chapter Two

**Chp. 2**

Hermione thoughtfully chewed her bottom lip while she shuffled through the overflowing stacks of paper that littered her working area. Her lips curved into a wry grin as a flash of mahogany showed beneath the pile she had just moved to sort. She had almost forgotten what the desk looked like…the desk so generously given to her as a gift from The Order.

She shook her wavy mane of hair as she recalled the beaming faces of Lupin, Ron, and Harry as they stepped aside to reveal the massive piece. It was beautifully crafted with elegant curves and ornate designs etched into its drawers. Yet…yet it was not the gift she was expecting to receive for her birthday. Some women get diamonds, others get flowers. Hermione, though, got a desk. With a sigh the young woman deposited the pile back to its original location, thoroughly convinced that her mission was futile.

Languidly, she sank into the swivel desk chair and proceeded to massage the dull pounding in her forehead. All she wanted to do was find the blasted paper that listed The Order's theories as to where the horcruxes were located. It would have been easy to locate, had she taken the time to organize the room.

A crack resonated through the room, as the brunette's head made contact with the desk, sending random sheets flittering through the air. How could she be so stupid? How could she forget the one thing that had separated her from the average person walking along the street? With a flick of her wand, Hermione mumbled " _Accio _horcruxes list," and watched as a sheet wiggled itself out from beneath a particularly treacherous looking pile teetering on the edge of her desk, and floated down into her lap. And to think that her professors used to call her brilliant.

It was with that thought that a hysterical giggle bubbled forth from Hermione's lips. If only her professors could see her now…

Hermione scanned the disorderly room and decided that the only appropriate title for such an atrocity was "a complete and utter mess". Yet in an odd sort of way, some part of her was proud of that mess. The other part of her was mentally berating her lack of color-coding and cross filing.

The old Hermione would have never allowed the misplacement of one paper, let alone several dozen stacks of paper. The new Hermione, though, was fed up with Ron and Harry and the blasted Order.

"Alls they had to do was ask," she muttered darkly to herself while glaring at the desk before her.

But they hadn't. After their sixth year, Ron, Harry, and Hermione went out in search of the horcruxes but quickly realized that they would need more than just the three of them to get the job done before any more of those they had gone to school with ended up missing or dead. The trio agreed that the best source of help would be The Order, and the next day, Kingsley, Moody, and the rest were all trying to dig up any information as to where a horcrux may be hidden.

Hermione was elated at the prospect of having The Order aid them in their search. Hermione was down right thrilled with the knowledge that they would be doing what she did best; research. Research to find any possible link between Voldemort's past to some object he valued enough to entrust with his soul. What Hermione hadn't been ready for was the day that The Order gave her that desk. It was with that desk that her purpose in The Order had changed from "agent" to "secretary".

It was as though some unspoken agreement had been reached between all of The Order members…all of them except herself. Every day they would bring her pile after pile of papers on mysterious deaths, disappearances, sightings; papers on interviews, statements, happenings in the Ministry. They would even bring her all of the receipts from the day's expenditures. And all of them expected her to file them away all nice and neat like the old Hermione had done with her work for years.

Actually, she felt that having someone file away all of their work was a good idea. It was possibly the _only_ step in the right direction The Order had taken since they had been informed of the horcruxes that needed to be destroyed. Then why, if she agreed with the idea of having a secretary of some sorts, was she upset with The Order and her two best friends? Because they hadn't even found it necessary to ask her if she wanted to file things for them. They just expected her to. And by golly, if Harry, Ron, or anybody else were to give her one more bloody sheet, she may very well explode.

So, through means of a silent protest, Hermione blatantly refused to file away any of the papers that came to her. What she was doing was making it harder for her to produce the information when necessary, thus creating a quite ineffective protest. Yet she was pleased with herself none-the-less.

"Hey Hermione!"

Hermione's head snapped up at the amiable greeting, only to find a lanky red head staring down at her, a stupid grin plastered across his face. She blinked several times, ridding herself of the feeling that through the power of her thoughts she had summoned him.

"Ron," she greeted back, her voice void of expression.

The young man didn't seem to notice though, for he quickly took a step into the room, minding to keep a hand hidden behind his back. The action was not lost to Hermione, who raised a querying brow at her friend.

"Oi, Hermione, ever hear of a filing cabinet? You've got some mess goin' on here." Ron let out a low whistle as he appraised he room, oblivious to the muscle spasm occurring in Hermione's jaw.

"Can I help you, Ronald?"

Whether it was the use of his full name, or the room temperature dropping several degrees from her frigid tone, Ronald quickly turned to shoot Hermione a wounded look.

"Sheesh, someone's got their knickers in a twist," he grumbled while attempting to pick his way through the chaotic piles to his friend. "Got something' for you," he said with a delighted grin, having quickly recovered from her curt words.

"Unless it's a steaming cup of tea, I suggest you leave." To emphasis her statement she benevolently pointed out where the door was located, incase he had forgotten.

Ron scowled at her in a playful way, thoroughly determined not to let her foul mood affect his chipper one. With a dramatic flourish of his hidden arm he produced a handful of papers.

"Ta dah! Dad wanted me to send them over to you…I suppose once you've sorted out," his arm swept out to indicate the room of papers, "this mess, you can get these tucked away too. You know Hermione, you really have let yourself go, allowing a clutter like this in the Order's Headquarters."

Hermione felt her body stiffen. Slowly, her gaze traveled from the freckle-dusted-face of Ron down to the thick pile of papers he held out expectantly. Her eyes narrowed and her breathing became erratic, as she mentally willed the pile to set ablaze. A gulp could be heard from the vicinity occupied by Ron.

Hermione's eyes glazed and she heard a distant roar as several years of repressed anger began to spill over. A burning sensations spread throughout her chest and her stomach clenched as she recalled all of the years of helping Ron and Harry in school, of checking over their essays, of taking care of them and the whole Order without one complaint…until now.

"Tell me Ronald," began the tiny witch, "is it nice having someone do all of the work for you? Is it nice to have someone clean up the mess that you're too lazy to take care of yourself?" Abruptly Hermione stood, sending her chair spinning backwards into a littered bookshelf. "Because you know what? I wouldn't know! I wouldn't know how it felt to have someone bloody wait on me hand and foot to do all of the work I didn't feel like doing because you and the rest of the bloody Order-," Hermione's fist made contact with a pile on her desk, causing it to crash into another pile. Like a macabre game of dominoes, pile after pile went spilling to the ground, visibly demonstrating the frustration that was spewing forth from Hermione, "-use me! You all use me!"

Ron's eyes widened at the unexpected turn his visit just took. He watched in horror as Hermione began to advance on him in a crooked sort of way with her arms flailing. He winced as her foot made contact with one of the knocked over piles, causing her to stagger and let out a stream of curses he didn't believe were possible to be known (let alone used) by Hermione.

"You never ask! You just-"

"Hermi-"

"-give give give and expect me to behave like some trained lapdog or something," she spat while taking one last step, now standing directly before him, "but I'm not!"

Ron felt the odd urge to chuckle as he stared down at Hermione. Her chin was raised defiantly and her nostrils were flaring in such a way that he expected smoke to suddenly start leaking from them. Fighting the smile that threatened to appear, he raised a hand to ruffle her hair. This, apparently, was not the wisest choice of actions, for it only made Hermione increase the intensity of her glare. With a sigh, Ronald Weasley put on a very serious expression.

"Hermione, listen-"

An odd guttural growl sounded before Ron found himself sprawled on the ground.

"Oh, don't you Hermione me, you prat! I am through with your stupid chauvinistic attitude! Of course it would be the woman who got appointed secretary." Hermione began pacing back and forth while muttering incoherently to herself.

"Hermione, have you gone mental?" Ron squinted at Hermione while attempting to free himself of the clutter that conveniently toppled upon him while he was forcefully shoved onto the floor. If his flushed cheeks and narrowed gaze were of any indication, one would say that Ronald Weasley was beginning to get angry. Very angry.

"And of all things, a desk! Now that's a _to __you __for __me _gift if I've ever heard of one…" Ignorant of his question, Hermione continued her ranting and pacing, her face growing redder and redder with each word.

"Hermione!" Ron grabbed the witch by her shoulders before she had a chance to register that he had successfully risen from the pile previously holding him captive.

"Ronald Weasley, if you know what's best for you, you will remove your hands from me _this __instant_. I am completely and utterly through with you!"

Both Hermione and Ron's eyes widened at her words. It wasn't as though she meant to say them. They just sort of…slipped out. Anyone that knew Hermione, really knew her, would say that the words just uttered held no truth. Yet the words stung Ron. They truly hurt him…hurt him more than anything else had. Maybe it wouldn't have bothered him as much if he didn't have feelings for…

He shook his, not allowing that thought to be completed. Pushing away all feelings of hurt, Ron instead focused upon the anger that had been simmering inside of him, waiting to boil over.

Ron regarded his friend with a curled lip, the tips of his ears a furious shade of scarlet. Very slowly and deliberately he turned and walked away from her. He paused when he reached the door and glanced over his shoulder, shooting back, "You know, it's a pity. You're pretty useless to The Order now that you can't even do the only thing your good at…cleaning up their mess."

Later, Hermione would reflect upon his words with an air of indifference. What did she care? Ever since they had met she had been nothing more to him than a tool. A tool for answers, for correcting his mistakes, for cleaning up _his_ mess. She was better off without him. Besides, there's no use regretting things that happened in the past…things that can never be changed.

Then again, she may have felt differently had she known that that was the last time she would ever see him.

oOo

Bellatrix stared at the crumpled figure with mild curiosity. Really, it was fascinating the positions a body could be twisted into. This was the second body this week they would leave, and with the same results as the first. With a curl of the lips, she delivered the corpse one final blow to the stomach before spinning to face her partner.

"Useless," she said with an airy shrug of her shoulders.

Severus spared the body a curious glance before responding.

"Whatever secret he was protecting must have been an important one, since he was willing to take it with him to the grave."

He watched as Bellatrix sashayed her way throughout the man's room, pausing now and then to finger a photo or a book. Suddenly she spun around, eyes flashing in the dim lighting of the kitchen.

"One of us will have to inform the Dark Lord." Her voice was husky from the laughter that seemed to froth endlessly from her lips earlier during the torture. She toyed with the silver broach that kept her cloak clasped around her neck, calculating eyes boring into his own glassy orbs.

"The other should stay," began Severus, "and search the house. Make sure nothing useful gets left behind." Bellatrix nodded in approval and headed towards the door. No words needed to be spoken. They knew who was to do what.

Had they merely been friendly acquaintances they may have searched the house together, but the mutual hatred warranted that any chance of a possible separation was instantly taken.

Bellatrix hesitated for a moment as she passed by the coffee table, her eyes alighting upon a vial filled with a shimmering, syrupy liquid that Severus had set down just a moment earlier. Delicate fingers flexed before she swiftly snatched it up. The Dark Lord would want it, to see what they had done. With a clink, the vial fell into her pocket, knocking against her pocket watch. And with that she left, throwing over her shoulder a, "Be sure to be thorough."

Severus sneered at her words.


	4. Chapter Three

**Chp. 3**

Oliver winced as, with the much needed assistance from his couch, he hefted himself up off the floor and onto his feet. He tenderly massaged his elbow and grunted. If the jolts running along the span of his arm meant anything, he had a nice bruise forming. Perfect. While wiping the sleep from his eyes, he trudged around his couch and to the door, eager to see who found it necessary to pay him a visit at this dreadful hour. With a muttered curse, Oliver wrenched open the door and peered out onto his front porch.

"Harry?"

A look of confusion spread across Harry's face, before he cracked a feeble smile and mumbled a wary "'lo, Oliver".

Oliver blinked several times, wondering if he was hallucinating. It had been years since he had last seen his schoolmate, yet there was no mistaking his previous seeker; the lightening bolt scar practically gleamed in the porch light, beneath the young man's unruly bangs. The pain in his arm became an afterthought as he took in his friend's appearance.

Harry's emerald eyes were glassy and rimmed with a watery hue of scarlet. His skin was pasty, his brow was creased, and judging by the rumpled state his clothes were in, it appeared as though it had been weeks since Harry had last seen the comfort of a bed. Then again, it was near midnight. At this time, anyone's clothes probably looked as though they had been worn while engaging in a vigorous wrestle with a jarvey. In fact, now that Oliver thought about it, his own clothes looked as though -

An indignant huff sounding from behind Harry effectively cut short Oliver's inner rambling. Oliver sent Harry a questioning look only to have the man step to the side, revealing a petite, fuming young woman; Hermione. Oliver mentally groaned.

Hermione's stance screamed of defiance. Her arms were crossed beneath her chest and her foot was tapping a staccato beat. Yet, what made Oliver grimace was the virulent glare she was sending him. The glare was so potent that it made the air around her seemingly crackle, and made her uncontrollable waves of mahogany hair snap around her face as though they were under the possession of some unseen being. It was then that the irate witch spoke.

"While it is wonderful to be stared at by someone obviously inept at civility, it is dreadfully cold standing on your porch, and as our post stated, we have urgent business to attend to. Perhaps we could continue being gawked at within the confines of your home…preferably with a cup of tea?"

Harry gave Oliver a rueful grin at Hermione's biting words. Yet Oliver only felt an initial brisling at what she said. Rather than dwell upon the insult, he was puzzling over one minor detail.

"Post?" Oliver queried, his eyes narrowing. Hermione clenched her jaw, and rose an eyebrow to Harry.

"Honestly, it's as if I'm talking to a child," Hermione grit out, before continuing in an exaggeratedly slow manner, "Our owl post. The one we sent you around ten thirty? The reason that you turned your light on at precisely eleven forty seven?"

Oliver shook his head in a daze, confusion evident on his face. Hermione let out a growl in exasperation.

"Mind if we step in, mate?" Harry diplomatically stepped between Oliver and Hermione and sent a pleading look to his former captain. After a slight moment of hesitation, Oliver shrugged and moved aside, granting them entrance into his flat. He knew that Hermione would get in his flat one way or another.

Oliver scrutinized Hermione the way he would scrutinize a rabid animal. The little witch ran her chilled hands up and down her arm while taking in his home. It was a modest size, making it evident that it was just he who inhabited it…well, he and Quaffle. He followed her gaze as she saw his leather couch, his white-washed breakfast table, his recently cleaned kitchen, his collection of Quidditch posters and memorabilia, and his utterly muggle television set and assortment of movies. Her gaze hovered on the television for a few seconds before it locked on his face.

"Are you not fluent in Gaelic, then?"

Her question, though quite simple, startled him. He glanced quickly to Harry, who was inspecting the novelty Quidditch clock, before turning back to Hermione.

"Pardon?" As soon as that word left his mouth Oliver wanted to bite his tongue.

"Great Merlin, are you daft? I asked if you were fluent in Gaelic," Hermione bit out. Perhaps it was her persistently cutting tone, or the fact that he had been rudely awakened from his nap, but Oliver was beginning to get annoyed.

"I kin speak it a bit, but I dinnea know wha' this has tah do with ye bein' in me flat a' this hour yellin' a' me abou' owl posts and speakin' Gaelic," stated Oliver while he attempted to reign in his aggravation. Yet he only partially succeeded in masking his feelings; his hand involuntarily ran through his tussled hair as a testament to his frustration.

Hermione and Harry shared a glance.

"So you mean to say that you are neither fluent in Gaelic, nor did you receive a letter by owl earlier?" At Oliver's exasperated nod, Hermione thoughtfully chewed her lip and began pacing.

None of this was making sense. Never in his life had Oliver experienced a more bizarre meeting. He had fancied meeting up with Harry again to see how his old seeker was doing. But he never expected to see Harry with Hermione in his house at midnight while having to endure the obviously unhinged Hermione ramble on about Gaelic and owl posts. He may have been able to find it in himself to feel sorry for Hermione's mental state if he was not so dreadfully tired and anxious about his Quidditch career. The only feeling Oliver was capable of mustering was exasperation

"Seein' as how ye interrupted me sleep, I thenk it's only fair tha' ye tell me what in the name of Merlin yehr doin' a' me flat." Oliver scowled at the petulant tone his voice had adapted.

Hermione simply raised a brow at his question while Harry closed his mouth tight, his lips forming a thin line. Noting their reluctance, Oliver made his way to the door, determined to escort them out. If they did not have a good reason for being at his flat, then they had no reason to stay. A smile flitted across his face as he realized that as soon as they left, he would be free of the ever annoying Hermione. His fingers alighted on the handle when a thought struck him.

"Ye know, I thenk that me neighbor has a collection o' books ehn Gaelic. Perhaps he is the one yer ahfter?"

"This is all just ridiculous," began Hermione, oblivious to what Oliver said, "Ronald probably ran off to sulk. I don't see why we are investigating a silly scrap of paper," she turned to Harry, consternation on her face, "I mean, how do we even know that this has _anything_ to do with him?"

Harry gave her a grim look, rose from where he had settled on the couch, and set the **Daily ****Prophet** down on the coffee table with a plunk.

"Hermione, do you honestly believe that Ron just ran off to sulk and for some reason decided to leave his wand lying on the ground?" Harry asked, eyes boring into Hermione's own. "Besides, this is the only clue we have as to where he is."

Oliver watched as the brunette's cinnamon eyes flared and a scowl graced her delicate features before she grit her teeth and looked away. Harry stared at her for several moments, before speaking up. "I vote we go to Oliver's neighbor and see if he can help us. It would make more sense that he was the one we were supposed to meet, anyways."

And that was how two minutes and eight concrete steps later Oliver found himself standing between a set of fake potted bushes in front of a mahogany door, waiting for the owner of flat number twenty four, Mr. Kavanagh, to answer the melodic chiming of his doorbell.

Silence.

Oliver scuffed his shoe along the concrete and coughed. Unease bubbled within his chest, making him antsy. He silently cursed himself for offering to introduce them to the old man.

"Ye know, now tha' I think of i', maybe we should've called tah see ehf he's awake."

Hermione scoffed and rolled her eyes, shouldering her way between the two men to stand before the door. With a flick of her hair and a squaring of her shoulders, she lifted a pale hand and pounded it against it against the door…

…only to have the door slowly swing open. Warm light from the foyer spilled onto the front porch, bathing the trio in its cheery glow. The light, the trio realized after a few hesitant moments, would be the only thing to greet them at this hour. Someone had left the door unlocked and partially open.

Tension clawed its way up Oliver's ribcage and set his heart beating at a furious pace. His hands twitched, aching to scratch the back of his neck. Something felt off. Something was horribly and utterly wrong. Harry and Hermione silently reached the same notion and extracted their wands from their robes.

oOo

Snape shuffled through thick parchment piled haphazardly on a well used work desk. Spidery writing filled up every available space on the papers, making the letters blur and swim in his vision. He swiped at his eyes and tried to refocus. It was imperative that he make sense of what he was seeing. With a bit more force than necessary, the man yanked open one of the polished drawers, the scraping sound of wood against wood doing little to ease his frustration.

The drawer was shallower than he expected. As if to compensate for the meager space it offered, the owner had stuffed the drawer to its carrying capacity with quills, ink wells, and, much to Snape's dismay, more parchment. With a sigh, he freed the drawer from the desk and emptied its contents onto the already cluttered desktop, and tossed the drawer aside. Dredging up a sense of purpose, Snape set to scanning through the papers, determined to glean some sort of guidance from Mr. Kavanagh's notes.

Multiple _revelios_ and several paper cuts later, Snape found himself no closer to having the answers the Dark Lord wanted then when he began his search through the flat. Snape swept his gaze around the room, taking in the papers flooding the floor, and the knocked over bookcases whose books dribbled from the toppled shelves. With a scowl, the old professor resigned himself to the fact that he would have to return to the death eaters' headquarters with the report of not being able to find the information the Dark Lord required. Fingering his wand, Snape turned on the spot and aparated to the outskirts of the camp with a resounding pop, oblivious to the soft _pat __pat __pat_ and the creaking of the door swinging open on the floor below.

oOo

"Perhaps we should cast a disillusionment charm on ourselves," hedged Hermione, as they stood staring into the foyer of the flat.

"Or we could cast to see if there was anyone alive in the flat," Harry whispered back.

Hermione mumbled _homenum__ revelio _and they waited. When nothing happened, they hesitatingly stepped inside, wands at the ready.

Although the flat was a mirror image of the one Oliver inhabited, the environment could not have been further from the cozy, worn in environment of Oliver's home. Furniture and decorations alike were strewn across the living area. Pillows and cushions lay shredded, their stuffing bleeding out onto the polished wood floor. Glass crunched beneath their shoes as they picked their way through the mess.

"Merlin," Harry whispered as he observed the mess. The flat spoke of destruction and violence. The flat stank of death.

"What is that smell?" asked Hermione, her voice muffled by the sleeve of her robe she had her nose buried in, trying to block out the scent.

Oliver fought back rolling nausea, taking panting breaths through his mouth before answering.

"Ehf I ha' tah guess, I would say tha' es the smell uhf a body." Saying the words made his stomach give a vicious churn. His assessment was confirmed when they turned the corner, entering the kitchen.

Hermione gave a yelp and halted, causing Oliver to run into her frozen form. The motion made the witch tumble forward, her balance thrown off by Oliver and the blood soaked linoleum. Had it not been for the Quidditch honed reflexes, which allowed Oliver to snatch her back, fingers digging into her waist, she would have slid and crashed into the rigid body of Mr. Kavanagh.

Oliver batted stray strands of the witch's bushy hair out of his face and peered around her, taking in the scene. His elderly neighbor lay frozen on the floor, his face scrunched into a mask of pain and horror. Stiff hands clutched a wand that was snapped in half, the broken ends held together by a dangling dragon heartstring that made up the core. Blood spatter decorated the room, a startling colour contrast against the chestnut cabinets and the white washed walls. Smeared across the far wall in dried, flaking blood was written a phrase that made him suck in a breath. Hermione traced his gaze to the inscription and paled.

"Mudblood," whispered Harry, reading the word aloud.

The silence that settled over them was deafening. And then, as though someone pushed play, Harry and Hermione were set into action. Shocked, Oliver watched as Harry sent out a patronus, informing the Order of what they found. Hermione paced around the room, giving the body wide girth, as she produced a parchment and quill from a pocket and magicked them to record notes as she detailed the scene aloud. Feeling the need to do _something_ Oliver set out to ward the flat.

Oliver moved back out to the living room, relief overcoming him as he lost sight of the body. He ran his hand through his hair and frowned as he realized his brow was sweaty and his hand was shaking. How could Harry and Hermione be so calm? He snorted as he realized that the two had seen far more in the past few years than he had seen in all of his time. It should be of no surprise to him that they would be able to handle death. With that thought, the expression on Mr. Kavanagh's face popped back into his mind, and felt his stomach roll once more. With forced determination, Oliver exited the flat to complete his task.

A breeze misted across Oliver's face as he leaned against the wrought iron railing leading up to his deceased neighbor's flat. He closed his eyes and deeply inhaled the crisp night air. The chilled gust helped him collect his thoughts. Who would want to kill his neighbor? Mr. Kavanagh had been a friendly, albeit somewhat eccentric, old man. Why would anyone bother with him? Oliver frowned as questions flooded his mind. Unable to come up with a satisfactory answer, Oliver went through the motions of setting up the wards, while he continued to mull over the situation at hand.

A thumping noise interrupted his casting. Heart racing, Oliver hunkered down and peered into the dark, eyes scanning the blackness as he vainly tried to locate the source of the noise. Adrenaline surged through him as he prepared to _stupefy_ whomever it was that was approaching the building. The noise was growing louder as the entity advanced. From the blackness, a shadow a bit darker than the night came into view. Oliver held his wand before him, about to whisper the spell when the slinking shadowed came more into focus. He let out a nervous bark of laughter as Quaffle padded his way to his master, his tail happily wagging.

"Watcha go' there, boy," questioned Oliver, as he noticed a flash of gold dangling from the slobbering mouth of his dog. In response, Quaffle dropped a gleaming pocket watch inscribed with a B.L. and a glass vial filled with a thick, shimmering liquid at Oliver's feet. Oliver's eyes widened in surprise when realization set in as to the identity of the contents of the vial. Only after a moment's hesitation, Oliver picked up the sticky items and jogged back into the flat, in search of Harry and Hermione.

He found them standing in the front room. From the looks of things, the two had been arguing. Harry was angrily muttering under his breath and glaring at Hermione, who stood with her arms crossed and jaw clenched. His arrival cut short whatever they had been discussing, and they turned their heated stares onto him. Unfazed, he held out the vial before him.

"So?" Sniffed Hermione.

Oliver tossed the vial over to Hermione, who caught it with a startled gasp and a huff. As she held up the glass to the light, Oliver answered,

"Memories. It migh' be impahrtent tah whatever happen'd here," he spread out his arms, gesturing to the destroyed home.

Cinnamon coloured eyes met his own chocolate orbs, and a ghost of a smile flitted across Hermione's face. And so with a half grin in response, Oliver unwittingly sealed his fate with that of the tiny witch before him who stood gazing thoughtfully at the vial resting in the palm of her hand.


	5. Chapter Four

_Hello all! I just wanted to thank you all for making it this far into my story; really, I know last chapter wasn't that good! Haha, anyways, thank you to everyone who has favourited or alerted this story, and please, please, please review! Love it, hate it, let me know! Cheers!_**  
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**Chp. 4**

The first thing to greet Severus as he appeared along the outskirts of Malfoy Manor was a shrill shriek. The second thing to greet the man was a string of curses that, had the foul phrases come from a student back during his Hogwarts days, would have caused him to dock the offender thirty house points along with earning them a week's worth of scrubbing out the first years' cauldrons. As it were, he was no longer at Hogwarts and the offender was not a student, but a rather disheveled looking Bellatrix.

"That mangy, stupid, good for nothing dog," she fumed, "ripped my best cloak! Who leaves such bloody stupid beasts running about at night?"

Severus smirked as he took in her rumpled state. The woman's already wild hair was standing on end, odd bits sticking to her lashes and lips, and her robe sported a jagged tear along the side. She _tsked _and sighed while fingering the frayed edges of the ruined garment.

"I should have killed that mutt," she added, a touch of remorse in her voice.

With an exaggerated roll of his eyes, Severus spun on his heel and began his march toward the Manor. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bellatrix jogging to catch up to him. They walked in a tense silence, neither wanting to converse with the other, but each wondering how the other fared. The trees flanking the long driveway stood as sedentary soldiers; the night breeze sifting through their leaves made them groan and sway, as though they were protesting the death eaters' presence. Ahead, the Manor's peaks sliced into the night sky from behind a wrought iron gate, looming before them in a way reminiscent of the Dark Lord himself.

"Did you find it?"

Startled, Severus looked over to his companion. The moonlight cast shadows across her face, exaggerating its hollows and planes and making her look like the emaciated escapee from Azkaban she was rumored to be. Bellatrix clicked her tongue at his prolonged silence, and frustration welled inside of him as he thought back to his fruitless search. Rather than answer, he countered with a question of his own.

"How did you run across a dog?"

Bellatrix's mouth twisted into an angry scowl.

"I was about to apparate when I heard a sound off in the distance. I went to check if someone had been following us, and ran into that...that...," a small growl left her mouth, "that rabid _thing_ and the damned beast attacked me!" Severus' chuckle made her frown deepen.

A slight hum and a warm tingle against their dark marks signified they had passed through the outer edge of the wards protecting the Manor. Soon, they would be greeted by whichever guards were on duty. Soon, they would be reporting their mission's findings to the Dark Lord.

oOo

"Harry, mate, could ye tell this neap tha' I was no' the one who kehlled meh neighbor!"

Hermione hid her grin behind her hand at the Scotsman's deep growl. The angrier he became, she noted, the more pronounced his accent became.

Two hours had passed since the incident at Oliver's neighbor's flat. Soon after Oliver had discovered the watch and vial, Aurors and other members of the Order showed up to analyze the scene. Moody had informed them that he was to escort the three back to headquarters to take their statements, while the others stayed behind to investigate. Oliver had, rather animatedly, protested the necessity of his presence in the process. Hermione let out a muffled giggle as she recalled the irate spinning of Moody's fake eye as the Keeper resisted his authority. Only after Oliver was able to secure his dog inside his flat and feed the massive ball of fur masquerading as a pet, was he (reluctantly) willing to go with them to headquarters to give his statement. The taking of statements, though, became an utterly comical interrogation of Oliver. To be quite honest, Hermione was unsure as to whether this level of interrogation was absolutely necessary, or whether Mad-eye was gaining some sort of perverse pleasure out of seeing the Quidditch player puff up at his snarky questions.

"-and he was with us when the body was discovered. He said he didn't know about the post and seemed honestly surprised to find his neighbor dead. I don't think he knows anything about why the man was killed or what happened to Ron"

Hermione blinked, catching the tail end of Harry's statement, her amusement fading. Right. Ron. She worried her bottom lip as she thought back to her last encounter with her friend. Shame and guilt filled her. Why had she said those things to him? Then again, how was she to have known that he was about to go missing? Surely, if she had known, she would not have been so insensitive to the man. Although, he did sort of deserve it...

Hermione frowned. That was no way to be thinking. The unsettling feeling that she had adamantly been trying to ignore told her that something was wrong. That Ron had not just gone off to sulk somewhere. A part of her was certain that Ron was in danger. And the more time they wasted on harassing Oliver, the less likely they would be able to find the missing wizard in time. Time was of the essence.

"I still think 'es a bit suspicious," growled Moody, his one good eye glowering at the Keeper.

Oliver snorted in response. A tic was beginning to form in his jaw, and his fingers were tapping out a sharp beat against the worn table at which they were seated. Hermione took this as her cue to intervene.

"Perhaps I could question him, Alastor?"

At his nodded consent, Hermione shifted her chair until she was sitting directly across from the former Gryffindor. His head was tilted to the side, allowing her to take in his profile as he glared at nothing in particular. He had sculpted features, a strong nose, thick eyebrows, and shaggy russet locks falling into coffee coloured eyes. Although the man was lounging back in his seat, the tension in his shoulders and jaw belied his casual front. Hermione cleared her throat, garnering his attention.

"Oliver," she stated with a nod. She sniffed at his deadpan stare.

"Oliver, do you recall hearing or noticing anything strange recently, in regards to Mr. Kavanagh?" Several moments of silence passed before she felt the beginning seeds of frustration plant as he continued to stare, blatantly refusing to respond. Hermione fought the urge to squirm as his, Moody's, and Harry's eyes all bore into her. Reigning in her composure, she attempted to question him once more.

"Had you noticed him sending or receiving any posts recently?" Still nothing.

"Really Oliver, do you fancy answering a _single_ question?"

Hermione felt her frustration grow and suffocate her from within. He did not want to cooperate? Fine. There were other ways to get the answers she needed, to prove he was not working for Voldemort. Hermione took a breath, and dove into his mind.

Hermione would reflect later on her actions with contrition. What she did was unforgivable. Delving into someone's thoughts and personal memories without reason or consent? That was crossing boundaries. That was something the death eaters did, not members of the Order of the Phoenix. She would tell herself she only did it because of the stress of the situation. And in all honesty, Moody was not the slightest bit upset by her actions. Probably because he still held some residual ire towards Oliver for resisting him, and this way they _knew_ Oliver was not working with Voldemort. After all, Moody had been treating Oliver like a hostile suspect. However, the look Oliver gave her the moment her mind touched his would be a look that would haunt her for life.

She quickly began sifting through his thoughts and memories. Here was the receiving of an owl telling Oliver he would become the starting Keeper for Puddlemere United. Then Oliver was meeting with Mr. Kavanagh for the first time. The old man clasped him on his shoulder and told him it was an honor to meet the Keeper of the keepers. Hermione rolled her eyes with Memory Oliver at the odd statement. Next was the frustration felt when Oliver found out Quidditch would be ending soon, due to the state of matters in the wizarding world. And then she felt his befuddlement as he opened the door to find Harry and Hermione on his-

- she was slammed against a mental wall. He had realized she was using Legilimency on him, and used Occulmency in return. Her eyes widened in surprise that the Quidditch player knew such advanced magic. Judging by the strength of his mental walls, the only reason she was able to penetrate his mind to begin with was because she had caught him off guard. Her eyes focused on his, and she felt a twinge of guilt as he glared at her, his lip pulled back in a snarl.

"Lassie, I dinnae give yeh permission tah be strollin' through my though's like tha'," he calmly drawled out, his burr a low rumble against the silence.

Hermione licked her lips, her heart fluttering, and broke her gaze with the man.

"Oliver is completely innocent, and should be allowed to return to his place immediately," she stated.

Moody scowled, but reluctantly agreed.

"You two take the lad back to his place. And," added Moody as an afterthought, "set up some extra wards for him. Just as a precaution."

Oliver stood up to protest, "With ahl do respect, I ken set up me own wards."

Moody spared Oliver a cursory glance, before stating, "That may be so. But these are dark times. You would do well to remember not to turn down extra protection."

oOo

The drawing room of Malfoy Manor was not what one would call a welcoming place. While beautiful in its opulence, the environment was akin to that of a mortuary. Those passing through the room did so with hunched frames and whispered conversations.

The centerpiece of the room was a grand table, able to seat as many people as the house itself could room (and the manor was not lacking in rooms). The table served as the meeting area for when the Dark Lord held his gatherings. The table also served as a stage for public disciplines and muggle and mudblood torturing; the table broadcasted those events through the scratches and bloodstains that spotted its surface. Voldemort forbade his followers from removing the marks marring the surface. He proclaimed that they were badges of triumph and proof of progress towards the cause.

Perpendicular to the body of the table was a fireplace large enough for a man to comfortably stand in. Above the fireplace was a gilded mirror which reflected the lapping light from the fire lit in the hearth. The hearth was one of the Dark Lord's favourite locations for torture. He derived a wicked joy from keeping his victims alive while they were flayed and held above the roaring flames.

Currently, Voldemort was eying the hearth with a keen interest. Reflected flames danced across his scarlet irises, making the slitted pupils take on a demonic malevolence.

"Tell me once more, Severus, where my paper has gone?" His voice was barely a whisper, calm and even.

"I don't know." Severus grimaced as the words left his mouth. His palms were slick with sweat and his heart ached as it pounded against his ribcage. He was positioned before Voldemort on bended knee, head bowed and greasy locks falling into his face. A single bead of sweat trailed down his nose and dangled from the tip, threatening to fall.

"And Bellatrix, ah dear, dear Bellatrix."

The woman in question shivered as the Dark Lord spoke her name.

"What ever happened to my memories?"

"It was lost when I was attacked, my Lord," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the popping and crackling of the flames.

"Attacked? Bellatrix, you are an accomplished duelist. How could someone have overpowered you? And when you were carrying something so very precious to me?"

Bellatrix gulped at the even, hissing tone. This calm anger was a terrifying anger. When the Dark Lord was thinking rationally rather than passionately was when his most horrific bouts of torture came into fruition.

Bellatrix tried to lick her lips, but her parched tongue was unable to soothe the cracked skin. She had spent the past half of an hour writhing on the floor under cruciatus curse and had screamed her throat raw, causing the skin around her mouth to break.

"Bellatrix?"

She hung her head further down, ashamed at herself. She had not even realized that the vial was gone until after the Dark Lord asked her to produce it. And on top of that, she was missing her watch. Damn that dog!

"It was not a human that attacked me, m'lord."

"Ah, yes, it was a dog," He spat the words at her, and fingered his wand. And then he was on his feet, screaming at her prostrate form.

"You let a mongrel attack you and lost the key piece to my plans! I WILL NOT STAND FOR SUCH CARELESSNESS! So help you if that vial falls into the wrong hands..."

Bellatrix winced as the sharp point of his wand dug into her cheek and trailed down her neck. She could feel the skin tearing, but bit her tongue to prevent herself from showing any more weakness in front of him.

"I live to serve you, my Lord. L-l-et me go back. I-I-I will find it for you. And the paper." She sounded pathetic. Like a pleading, stuttering fool. She was not this person! She was definitely going to kill that dog.

Voldemort withdrew his wand.

"Had it not been for your earlier success, I would not be showing the two of you such mercy."

Snape and Bellatrix let out a breath of relief. They spared a glance at each other and saw mirrored expressions of amazement.

A muffled cry penetrated the still air of the drawing room.

"Rise," Voldemort commanded.

Severus and Bellatrix struggled to their feet, ignoring their bodies' aching protests of having just been tortured. As they turned to face their leader, they were greeted with the reason for their being spared.

A bound and gagged Ronald Weasely floated before them, held rigid in the air. The whites of his eyes shown as he frantically looked around the room. Dread was evident on his contused and smashed face as he realized just who he was in the presence of.

"You will go back, both of you, and retrieve my vial. Meanwhile, Mr. Weasely and I are going to have a chat."

Bellatrix and Snape bowed and moved out of the room. They did not need to be told twice.

oOo

"Well that should take care of the last of the wards," said Harry. He looked over to his former captain and found the man rubbing his eyes and stifling a yawn.

Oliver had been silent ever since they returned to his flat, and had very obviously been avoiding Hermione. Harry was unsure as to whether the palpable tension was due to something Hermione saw when she was in his mind, or whether it was just the sheer fact that she entered his mind in the first place. Whatever the reason, it was evident that Oliver was eager to have them gone.

"Well Wood, we'll just be on our way then," Harry patted Oliver on his shoulder in farewell.

Oliver blinked at Harry before knocking the man on the shoulder in return.

"Thanks mate. I really do appreciate the wards. 'S a shame we 'ad tah meet because of this awl."

Harry just shrugged in response.

"Ehf yer interested, Puddlemere's havin' their last game tahnight. Quidditch is stoppin' because of recent ehvents." Oliver's face twisted into a look of disgust. Harry knew what he was talking about.

The death eater attacks had gotten much worse, as of late. Their numbers were growing stronger, and they were demonstrating their increased force with outward hostility and violence. If they did not find more horcruxes soon, or way to defeat Voldemort...

If they did not find Ron soon...

Harry sighed, feeling the gravity of the situation pulling him down.

"Anyways, ehf yer ineterested, the two of you," Oliver shot a glare at Hermione, "are wehlcome tah come. My treat."

Harry grinned and thanked Oliver. In reality, they would not be able to attend. The offer was nice, though.

"Thanks. Cheers."

Harry and Hermione stepped out of the flat and into the night. The sky was beginning to lighten; dawn would soon arrive. Harry resigned himself to the fact that he would not be getting much, if any, sleep this night. Too many important events had occurred for him to waste time with rest.

First Ron went missing. Mundungus had found his wand and that scrap of paper a few blocks away from 12 Grimmauld Place. That damned piece of paper...it was their only lead as to where Ron was. And no one could decipher the scrap. It was written in Gaelic, and was heavily warded; no spell was able to translate the words. What little information they were able to turn up was that wizards and witches of old would protect their myths with enchantments to prevent anyone from discovering their secrets. Only someone fluent in the language and familiar with the magic would be able to understand the legends. This was especially prevalent with Celtic and Gaelic lore. Mr. Kavanagh had dedicated his life's work to translating and collecting such works. And now, the one person they knew of who could help them was dead.

At least they had that vial of memories. Hopefully they would stumble across something useful. Based off the current state of affairs, though, Harry doubted they would have such luck. He scowled.

"You're not seriously considering going to the Quidditch game, are you?"

Harry glanced at Hermione. She looked just as tired as he felt. He shook his head at her question.

"Good. We need to focus on finding Ron. Besides, I don't think I could sit and watch the _keeper __of__ the __keepers_," she scoffed with a roll of her eyes.

"What on earth are you talking about?"

Hermione blushed and looked down, before mumbling, "Just something I got from Mr. Kavanagh in Oliver's memories. It doesn't matter. Let's go home and see what the the Aurors recovered from the scene."

And with a pop, the two apparated back to 12 Grimmauld Place, unaware of the two death eaters under the disillusionment charm nearby, eavesdropping on their conversation. Hermione had just placed Oliver in grave danger.


	6. Chapter Five

_Hello all! Sorry this __took a while to get up; I have been slammed with interviews and exams. But I just got my first acceptance into medical school! So now I should have more time to work through this story. I hope you enjoy...feel free to review! Seriously though. Review. _**  
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**Chp. 5**

"Look alive, Wood!"

Oliver groaned and stifled a yawn in response to his coach's reprimands. Blue and gold swarmed in his vision as his teammates weaved in and out of formation, practicing drills before the game. Blinking his watering eyes did nothing to resolve the blurred figures before him. He groaned again.

Once Harry and Hermione left his flat, it took nearly all of his strength to stumble his way into his bedroom. What was left of his strength was spent kicking off his shoes and stripping off his clothes before collapsing onto the bed. And yet, in spite of his exhaustion (and exhausted he was), sleep refused to overtake him, flittering just outside of his reach. Oliver blamed Quaffle. The massive newfoundland managed to nudge his way onto the middle of the bed and weigh down the covers, only allowing Oliver a measly corner of fabric. And then the wretched dog had the audacity to snore all night. Between that and the sudden images of Mr. Kavanagh's broken body, Oliver had a terrible night.

Oliver was still unsure how to react to Mr. Kavanagh death. It was not as though he had never seen a dead body before; he had been to his aunt's funeral as a boy. And it was not as though he was squeamish around blood and gore. Through Quidditch and being a rather mischievous child, Oliver had received and witnessed his fair share of trauma. Once he had completely shattered the bones in his left leg, due to an unforeseeable accident involving Mrs. Norris, the Whomping Willow, and Percy's prefect badge. So major wounds were of no bother to the man. However seeing such grotesque injuries that were purposefully inflected to another with the intent to cause suffering...that sort of senseless violence _was_ a bother to Oliver. In fact, it was such a bother that Oliver had not slept a wink. He just hoped that his lack of sleep would not cost his team the game.

A stray bludger grazed against his ear, nicking the soft shell and causing the Keeper to hiss in pain. His eyes roved the field until he found Danny Grummet looking quite contrite with slackened jaw and beater club hanging limply in his hand. The Beater gave Oliver an abashed half grin, to which Oliver responded with a two fingered backward V-salute.

"Oi, Wood, pull yer head from yer arse and get it in the game! And Grummet, aiming at Keepers'll get ya fouled out ya barmpot."

Oliver growled at their coach's words and attempted to keep his focus to the practice before him. He bobbed up and down on his broomstick, buoyed by the breezes weaving around his form. It really was a beautiful day for a game. That almost made things worse.

The air was crisp and fresh, filling his lungs with its sharp invigoration. In the distance, green hills lazily swept around the stadium. In several hours time, those hills would be spotted with witches and wizards apparating and appearing via portkey, buzzing with excitement for the game. Banners and hats, costumes and body painting alike would paint the crowd with a dazzling hodge-podge of blue, gold, black, and red; the colours of the teams. Sunlight trickled along the wood of the empty stadium that encircled the pitch. Those seats would soon house thousands of fans roaring their approval and adrenaline fueled ire at the rollicking game.

And what a game it was predicted to be! The Ballycastle Bats currently held the number one seat in the league; closely following their broom tails was Puddlemere United. The two teams sported an off pitch rivalry that was almost reminiscent of the Hogwarts house rivalries Oliver recalled from his school days. Oliver's eyes sought out Danny once more, a former slytherin who graduated a year before him.

He spared his teammate a glare as the man in question moved to hit a bludger and missed when a gust of wind swept him off balance, causing him to whack the other beater across the chest with his club. _Almost._With the drama between the two teams and the game being the last of the season, the daily prophet was anticipating this to be the game of the century; tickets had been sold out for months.

Oliver frowned as a heavy bitterness filled him. Since as long as he could remember, his one dream in life had been to play Quidditch. His mum would swear up and down to anyone who would listen that his first word was "quaffle" and his first phrase was "bludgers hurt". The first Christmas that he could recall was the one he received a wee broom that hovered a half meter off the ground. He used to spend all of his time buzzing around the house on that broom, pretending the family's orange tabby was a snitch and chasing the poor animal from room to room until his mum would catch him and give him a lashing. Nothing in either the muggle or the wizarding world (except maybe Quaffle) brought him more joy or peace than when he was riding a broomstick. Nothing compared to the camaraderie or the energy of participating in a Quidditch game. And now everything that gave his life meaning was about to be abolished.

And people were dying.

And he had to interact with Hermione.

Oliver really hated Death Eaters.

"Alright you lot, hit the lockers and take yer break before the game."

With a sigh, Oliver circled down to the ground, hoping that the showers and a massage would relieve him of some of the stress and put him at ease before his last game.

oOo

Harry and Hermione sat side by side at the Black dining room table, their shoulders sagging and their arms brushing. To an observer, the two would appear quite bedraggled; their hair was uncombed and matted, the pallor of their skin could only be described as deathly, and their eyes bore a haunted look common to victims of torture.

Mounted on the table before them was a massive stone basin. Etchings lined its rim, lending the object a mystical air. Inside the bowl slivered a silvery liquid. The two leaned forward and peered into the basin, observing the thick and sluggish motion of the material inside. Reflected across their faces was a bright, shimmering light emitted by the solution, which exaggerated the ashen appearance of their skin.

"Whose memories do you suppose these belong to?"

Hermione cocked her head and pursed her lips in thought at the question. She spared a glance at the empty vial, discarded to the left of her hand. Truth be told, the mystery as to whose memories were encased in the vial had been gnawing at her since the moment Oliver tossed the vial her way. It was a curious thing, that they were able to recover someone else's memories. Usually, something as valuable as a memory was kept closely guarded.

Hermione slipped her hand into Harry's and gave it a comforting squeeze.

"Well, there is only one way to find out. What do you say to another adventure?"

And with that, the two took a breath and fell forward into the swirling fluid.

Blackness engulfed them. If not for the warmth of Harry's hand encasing her own, Hermione would have been certain that she was alone. Hermione shivered as the the memories slithered across her skin and resisted her passage through the mucous-like, slippery membrane they formed. She pushed harder against them, panic setting in. Still they did not give. Flailing, she released Harry's hand and frantically tore at the material until she felt it thin beneath her struggles and then split, allowing her to tumble forward...

...onto a litter strewn alley. A soft thud coming from behind signified that Harry had arrived. Hermione stood, smoothing out her clothes, before taking the time to survey her surroundings.

It was night time. A small crescent moon peaked at her from behind smokey clouds, and a few stars dotted the sky, offering a meager amount of light. What light they offered did little more than cast long shadows from the high peaks of the brick building on either side of them. Rubbish and refuse speckled the strip of cobblestone that made up the alley, giving the area a putrid stench. A haunted, low wail from the wind made her shudder and the hairs on her neck stand on end. The scratching and chittering noises of rodents made her bite her tongue to keep from squealing. Her body became chilled and her heart began pounding at a rapid pace. Where were they? The witch let out a shrill yelp as a hand alighted on her shoulder. Quickly, she extracted her wand and twirled around to confront whatever it was that was attacking her, only to see Harry's shocked face.

"Blimey Hermione, d'ya think you could scream at a pitch that won't rupture my eardrums?"

Hermione turned a furious shade of red and stashed her wand back into her robes. Glaring, she opened her mouth to retort when footsteps began to echo down the alleyway. She moved to find a hiding spot when Harry's hand stopped her. Confused, she shot him a questioning look.

"These are memories. No one can see us."

Hermione tried to hide her embarrassment about having overlooked such an obvious fact, by giving her friend an arching look and a sniff before mumbling, "I knew that."

Harry snorted and she stuck out her tongue at him.

Any signs of mirth that had settled on their faces melted away as they saw three figures round the corner. Really, it was two very distinct figures in Death Eaters masks that rounded the alley; the third, a portly middle aged man, was forcibly dragged. A high pitched laugh danced its way across the back lane to the pair and they both stiffened. It was an unforgettable laugh, belonging to an even more memorable owner; Bellatrix.

"Tell the pudgy man what will _precisely_ happen to him if he refuses to tell us," sang Bellatrix in a husky voice.

"He will die, and it will not be a quick feat," the other figure drawled.

Hermione felt her stomach drop. That voice was just as recognizable as Bellatrix's. She had heard that condescending tone countless times in potions class. Snape was the other Death Eater.

The man looked like he was about to become ill. His brown hair stuck against his wrinkled brow that was slick with sweat. Cuts and bruises framed wobbling jowls that were quivering with the amount of head whipping he was doing as he looked between his two captors.

"I-I told you all I knew," He stammered, tears welling in his eyes, "P-p-please let me go."

Bellatrix flicked her wand in a lazy gesture, sending the man flying into a brick wall. His head made a cracking noise as it connected with the building. The cry the man emitted nauseated Hermione, and it took great effort to keep from heaving. Helplessly she watched as the Death Eaters tortured him, knowing she could do nothing to intervene.

By time they finished, the man was a broken heap. His limbs lay at awkward angles from his body and his face was half sunken in, from the repeated connections it made with the surfaces along the alley. Blood slowly crept away from him, trickling down the cracks of the cobblestones and outlining the rocks in crimson.

"I guess that really was all he knew," mused Bellatrix.

Hermione watched the witch dance her way around the body, her thick black robes swirling about her legs. The woman looked like a wicked china doll; thick black hair curled around an eerily beautiful black and silver mask. Bellatrix turned to Snape, her back to Harry and Hermione. Hermione strained to hear the woman's voice as it came from behind unmoving black lips, muffled by the disguise.

Harry tugged on Hermione's sleeve, urging her to move forward so they could listen to what Bellatrix was saying.

"-so we ought to visit this Mr. Kavanagh. Though the bloody fool never said _why _he could help us or _where_ we could find him. What do you suppose is on that scrap, anyways?"

Snape reached into his robe and pulled out a small piece of curled, worn parchment. The two bent over it to peer at the writing.

"I have no idea, but _you-know-who_ seems to think it is of extreme importance. He got it off some man in Romania, right before he killed him," relayed Snape.

Bellatrix chortled.

A clattering sound reverberated down the alley, and the two Death Eaters looked up in alarm, wands at the ready. A rubbish bin rolled into the mouth of the alley, followed by a stumbling and cursing Mundungus.

""oo the bloo'y 'ell puts fheir bins nex' to fhe exit?" Fletcher grumbled while trying to extract his foot from a cardboard box.

"Mundungus," sighed Severus, annoyance lacing his tone, "What are you doing here?"

The man in question let out a triumphant cry as he freed his foot before replying.

"Ain't no reason to get upse'. I was just on me way to fhe 'og's 'ead when I sawr Ron Weasley. 'e was elephants and Jack and grumblin' abou' somfing fha' gilly mint Granger said. It's fha firs' time any one of fhem 'ave been Jack Jones. I tol' fhe Dark Lor' and 'e tol' me where to find youse. Says 'e wants youse to bring 'im in."

Hermione felt her heart drop. She sent up a silent plea that Ron had not been captured by Death Eaters, that he had just stormed off and was regaining his composure before returning to The Order.

"That backstabbing rat!" Harry snarled. His hands were curled into tight fists, the whites of his knuckles a stark contrast to the shadowed alley. "I'll kill him!"

"Lure the Weasel down this way, and we'll take care of the boy," said Bellatrix.

The memory began to turn gray along the edges and fade away.

Quite suddenly, they found themselves standing at the mouth of the alley. Hermione gasped in surprise and jumped against Harry as a green spell was hurled just above her head.

"Mundungus, help me!" Ron yelled, his voice cracking as he pleaded to the man he thought was his ally.

Hermione watched, horrified, as Snape and Bellatrix circled Ronald, their movements feline and predatory.

Ron held out his wand bravely before him, though the slight tremor in his hand belied his bravado. He stumbled backwards, trying to prevent the Death Eaters from getting behind him, only to run into Fletcher.

"Mundungus, you take the one on the left. If we work together, we can make it out of here alive."

Hermione's vision became blurred with tears as she watched a wicked grin spread across Mundungus' face. Ron, naive to the burgeoning betrayal, squared off with his old potions professor.

"Sorry, ma'e. 'ol Fle'cher's go' ofher plans"

And with that, Mundugus shoved Ron into the Death Eaters.

"RON!" Hermione screamed, knowing all the while how worthless her cries were.

Ron stumble forward, his wand slipping from his fingers, just before Snape and Bellatrix stunned and bound him. Unbeknownst to Snape and Bellatrix, a small scrap of parchment fluttered to the ground, landing beside Ron's forgotten wand, as they moved forward to collect their petrified prisoner.

Tears spilt down Hermione's cheeks as she met the unseeing gaze of Ron, his eyes seeming to have found her own. His face was frozen in a mask of hurt and disbelief. The guilt she had kept harbored at bay brimmed past her barriers, the weight of it bringing her to her knees. Sobs wracked her body and scrapped her throat raw.

She heard the rustle of Harry's clothes as he moved to sit beside her. He pulled her into his lap, and she buried her head against the fabric of his shirt. The pain was unbearable. She was the reason Ron got caught. She was responsible for every bit of torture he would be put through. And if they killed him...

Hermione let out a pitiful whimper. She would be the cause of his death.

Harry shushed and rocked his friend while running a hand through her hair. Above her sniffles, she heard Snape order Mundungus to collect Ron's things and give them to The Order and tell them he found them abandoned outside of their headquarters.

"Hermione, we'll get Ron back. I promise," soothed Harry.

Numbly, Hermione nodded. She wiped the tears from her face, and extracted herself from Harry's embrace. Giving her friend a watery smile, she stood. She needed to focus. She needed to funnel her energy into rescuing Ron and solving the mystery behind that scrap of parchment. They needed to find a way to get rid of Voldemort once and for all.

"At least now we know who has Ron, and how we ended up with the parchment. That daft git Mundungus must have thought it was Ron's and returned it to us with the wand. Thank Merlin he botched that up. Now we have a clue as to what Voldemort is up to."

The memories once more grayed and fell out of focus. When things came back into focus, the two found themselves standing in Mr. Kavanagh's kitchen.

Mr. Kavanagh held up his wand before him, proudly facing Severus and Bellatrix. Blood steadily dripped down his face from a jagged cut on his brow and his left arm hung limply at his side, very obviously broken.

"My life is not so precious that I would damn the world to the hell that you and your kind would create by telling you what the Dark Lord wants to know," he said steadily, his gaze never wavering from the glassy orbs that peered through the eye holes in the Death Eaters' masks.

Bellatrix laughed aloud in delight and began to slowly clap. "Well said, old man! What bravery! What aplomb! But will it last in the face of torture?"

Bellatrix pushed the tip of her wand into the man's chest. His breathing increased, yet still he refused to cave. He drew his age-hunched frame to its full height. His green eyes became hard beneath bushy eyebrows, and his mouth formed a thin line.

"I will ask you once more, why did Geoff think that you would be of use to the Dark Lord in regards to that parchment written in Gaelic?"

Mr. Kavanagh lifted his chin and glared at the Death Eaters from down his nose.

"I took an oath to protect the keepers and all that they guard," he said. With a bitter smile he turned his wand to face himself, "and protect, I shall. It is not death I fear, but what you would do with the power of such knowledge. AVADA KEDAVRA!"

Like a limp rag doll, he fell forward. A cracking sound echoed throughout the kitchen as his body connected with the floor, his weight causing his wand to snap in half.

Bellatrix cried out in outrage, and Severus swore loudly. In a fit of fury, Bellatrix began to violently kick at the dead man. The sound of bones crunching as her boot connected with his ribs would have made Hermione cringe, but she was too distracted. Something about what Mr. Kavanagh said was bothering her. Something important was drifting just outside of her conscious awareness, like a word stuck to the tip of her tongue.

And then she gasped. Of course!

She snatched Harry's arm and pulled them out of the memories.

"Blimey, Hermione, what was that for? What if there was more that we-"

"Harry! I know who they are looking for! Or rather, who they need." Hermione stammered out, her words rushed and her breath coming in pants.

Harry furrowed his brow in confusion.

"Before, when I was in Oliver's memories, I saw Mr. Kavanagh calling him the Keeper of the keepers. I thought he was just referring to how good of a Quidditch player Oliver is. But he wasn't! Well, not entirely at least. Oliver is a Keeper and he is _the__ keeper_, thus the Keeper of the keepers. Mr. Kavanagh was Oliver's neighbor because he was _the __guardian__ of __the __keeper_!"

Harry's eyes widened at her statement. As daft as this whole situation seemed, she made sense.

"Oh no, Harry! The Quidditch game! We have to get to Oliver."


	7. Chapter Six

**Chp. 6**

If asked to define herself in a single phrase, Hermione would have gone with, "a tad bookish". She was never really one to party or get riled up. Not that she did not enjoy a good firewhiskey or cheering on the boys as they played Quidditich. And not that she did not enjoy letting her hair down every once in a while. But given the choice between a pub or a good novel, more often than not Hermione would be found curled up with the novel and a steaming cup of tea. Truth be told, being around large crowds always made her a bit...irritated. Glancing around her, she silently fumed that irritated would be a mild description as to her current disposition.

"I swear on Merlin's beard that the next person who cuts me off or stomps on my toes will be on the receiving end of a very potent bat bogey hex!" Ground out Hermione with a dangerous flash in her eyes, after having been jostled into Harry for the fifth time that evening.

Harry blinked owlishly at the ranting Hermione and fought the grin that threatened to spread across his face. The poor girl looked one solid shove away from hexing Voldemort to grow petunias from his ears; her left eye had developed an odd twitch and her hair was crackling wildly around her face with an incensed energy.

For the past ten minutes, the two had been elbowing their way through the near-rabid Quidditch fanatics that were awaiting the start of the game. Hermione had lost count how many times she had batted away errant, squeaking bats hanging from red and black striped hats. The magicked adorations almost looked offended each time she smacked them out of her face. Twice, the tiny witch had to side step vendors that apparated to the game, suddenly appearing before her from out of nowhere. Each time Hermione stared in horror as their piled wares wobbled dangerously atop their carts, threatening to defy the magic that held them aloft and topple onto her petite form.

The atmosphere was just as riled as was The World Cup during their fourth year. It would appear that, once again, Voldemort and his followers would try and spoil the day. Hermione glowered.

"I'm serious, Harry! One more time, and I'll-oof"

Hermione was cut off when a well placed elbow found its way to her gut. The offenders, Hermione discovered, were a flock of girls rushing past the duo and squealing in delight.

"Hermione," warned Harry, as he warily watched the young woman, waiting for any sign that the witch intended to attack the group.

Wide-eyed and mouth gaping like a cod, Hermione stared as the flouncing fans ambushed a very muscular man standing outside of a door built into the stadium. The man surveyed the group with indifference, beefy arms crossed over his chest and shaking his no in response to whatever they were saying.

"Harry, what are they doing?" she asked, curiosity winning out over her ire.

Harry snorted at her question.

"Read the sign above the door," he replied, pointing to a gold embossed sign.

Hermione's mouth formed a small 'o', as understanding dawned on her. Under a wavering lamp shown the words, _Locker Rooms; Puddlemere United. _Her anger was replaced with mild amusement as she watched a few of the girls try to charm the man blocking the door. Hermione had to roll her eyes when one of them leaned forward, allowing the man a clear view down her shirt. The man looked semi-remorseful as he, once again, shook his head no. Collectively the groups' shoulders slumped, and they slunk their way to the side, glaring at the guard.

She almost laughed aloud. Really, who would be daft enough to try to enter into the team locker rooms right before a match?

"Come on Hermione, let's go fetch Oliver," Harry called as he strode purposefully towards the bouncer.

Hermione fought down a groan as she eyed the colossal man blocking the door. A wry smile flittered across her lips as she found the answer to her question; apparently Harry was daft enough to try. Hermione rolled her eyes at his obvious disregard for any sort of plan. Did Harry really expect them to be granted entrance? She looked back to the group of girls who were slowly inching their way to the door of the locker rooms, while trying to appear unobtrusive. Hermione seriously doubted that she and Harry would be allowed in when the others had been denied. So what, were they supposed to overpower the guard and force their way inside? The man was positively enormous! Or did Harry expect them to blithely stroll in, as though they belonged in the lockers?

It was times like these that Hermione wished she had her own cloak of invisibility. Or that they had not forgotten to bring along Harry's cloak.

"Uh, Harry, just how do you propose we get around that mountain of a man," she queried, her eyes fixing on the guard as she jogged to catch up with her friend, "I mean, really, it's as though someone dumped a pile of rocks down and decided to give them a name!"

The man in question met Hermione's gaze and gave her an amused look, having overheard her conversation with Harry. Hermione's eyes widened in mortification and a hot flush spread across her face.

"Well, since you just made friends with him, perhaps he will let us through if you ask," said Harry cheekily.

The boy-who-lived let out a small _oof_ as he received a swat in the arm from a thoroughly miffed Hermione.

oOo

Oliver had just finished adjusting the ties on his pants when the shuffling of feet and deep, apologetic tones of the Puddlemere United's bouncer, Darrel, sounded throughout the changing area.

Oliver's eyebrows shot up and his jaw dropped when he saw Darrel turn the corner, walking in a very uncomfortable hunched position so that he was at the same height as one smug looking Hermione Granger. Darrel looked abashed as he finished apologizing to the tiny witch for his previous behavior.

"-and if your seats are not close enough, let me know. I can bring you back through here after the game so you can meet all of the players," Darrel finished. The man gave Hermione a worried look, as though hoping she would be pleased with his offer.

Oliver noticed Harry hovering just behind the large bouncer. He gave his old teammate a baffled look to which Harry lifted his arms, indicating he had nothing to do with the current situation.

"Darrel, that is very generous, but completely unnecessary. Thank you so much for escorting us back here. I trust next time, there won't be this misunderstanding."

Darrel nodded, a frightened look in his eyes. Quickly the bouncer scurried off without a backward glance, muttering under his breath about hell hathing no fury.

Oliver spared a look to his teammates who were gearing up before the game. They all wore varying degrees of amused and shocked expressions as they observed the scene unfolding before them.

"Bloody hell woman, I've seen hardened criminals break down before him, and you've got him eating out of your hand," exclaimed Danny.

Hermione, who had been watching Darrel's retreat, spun and met the beater's gaze. She flashed the man a grin and gave an airy shrug.

"You just have to know how to handle people."

Danny, whose eyes were lasciviously raking down Hermione's form, opened his mouth to make a smarmy response, when Oliver cut him off with a waspish tone.

"What are ye two doin' ehn the changin' rooms?"

Oliver watched Hermione's shoulders stiffen and her mouth thin into a tight line at his tone, all traces of her good mood completely diminished after a few words from him. He almost felt remorseful at being the reason she lost her teasing air, but could not bring himself to actually feel bad; Danny's presence around Hermione bothered Oliver. Or maybe it was just Hermione that bothered Oliver. Either way, seeing Harry and Hermione in the locker rooms made Oliver wary; nothing good had come from those two, as of late.

"Looking for you, you prat. Change back into your robes, we have to leave immediately. You are not to play in the match."

Oliver mused that the ensuing silence would have been comical, had the situation been happening to anyone other than himself. He knew that, were he to turn around, he would see all of his teammates frozen mid-action. They all knew how touchy he was about Quidditch. The sport was his life. Him? Not play? The idea was almost laughable.

But as it were, he found nothing even remotely humorous about being ordered not to play. In fact, if he were entirely honest with himself, the idea of being ordered not to play by Hermione made him downright furious.

"Well that's just brilliant Hermione. Way to get straight to the heart of the issue. Ever heard of easing into subjects?" said Harry dryly.

The rustle of clothes from behind him told Oliver that his teammates were making their escape, apparently not wanting to be a part of the fight that was certain to break out.

"There's no use dawdling. Grab your things and let's go," said Hermione with more force than before.

When he still did not budge, she clapped her hands in front of his face, as though she were a nanny and he a belligerent child not quite ready to be finished playing with his toys.

Oh yes, Oliver was becoming quite angry.

"Care tah explahen tah me why I cannae play ehn the match, lassie?" Oliver quietly asked.

Though his tone held no hint of the ire boiling within him, his stance was the picture of pure lividity. He stood with his feet apart, hands curled into fists at his sides, and his head bowed. With a clenched jaw, he glared at the witch from beneath his lashes.

Hermione exaggeratedly rolled her eyes and sighed.

"I really do not have the time to explain everything to your testosterone fueled mind. Suffice it to say that we think you are in serious danger. Now grab your things and let's go!" She snapped, aggravation lacing her voice.

"Och, ya mean tah tell me tha' I cannea play beacause uhf a wee hunch ye have? What do ye mean ya _thenk _tha' I ahm ehn danger? " Incredulity and sarcasm filled his voice.

Hermione's nostrils flared and the tips of her ears began to take on a scarlet hue. Instead of responding, she stomped over to his locker, snatched out his gear bag, and threw it at his chest. Oliver exhaled heavily through his nose and ground his teeth. Words failed him as he glowered at Hermione, his bag laying empty and forgotten at his feet.

"I hate to agree with her, Oliver, but she's right. We don't know why, but we think the Death Eaters are after you. We really need to get you to safety as soon as possible. You shouldn't play tonight mate," Harry added gently.

Oliver felt his chest tighten and his body tense. His breathing became labored as he considered the utter absurdity of the situation he found himself in. He did not know whether to laugh or scream. His whole life, he worked towards one goal; to become a Quidditch player. And a bloody good one he was. And now, not only did the Death Eaters bring a halt to the sport that gave him meaning...now the Death Eaters and his former classmates were forcing him to give up the last game his team would ever play for Merlin knew how long.

With a growl, he fisted a hand into his hair. Brow scrunched, he glared at his shoes while he carefully picked his words.

"Hermione," he began softly, "A' ken that ye dinnea really spend a lo' o' time ahround me back ehn Hogwarts, but Harry," Oliver lifted his gaze and pinned Harry, "Harry ye ought tah know behtter. Ye know tha' Quidditch is meh everythin', and ehf ye thenk tha' the threat uhf an attack is going tah stop me from playin' then ya really dohn' know meh a'tall. I _will_ be playin' tahnight."

Harry hung his head and sighed, guilt ridden. He scrubbed a hand against the back of his head as he considered Oliver's words. If there was one thing that Harry could understand, it was having a purpose in life. His purpose, to fight Lord Voldemort, had been forced upon him. And yet, it gave him passion and meaning; fighting for the light – knowing that his parents did not sacrifice their lives for him in vain was his everything. Who was he to determine whether or not what gave someone meaning should be taken from them?

Hermione, catching the indecision lingering around Harry's frame, dropped her jaw in shock.

"Oh you have got to be kidding me! Harry, this is ridiculous. Hold him down while I stupefy him," she ordered while patting down her robes, looking for her wand.

Just when she made connection with the smooth wood, she felt Harry's hand still her arm.

"If we let you finish this game, will you come with us after?" asked Harry

"WHAT?" sputtered Hermione, completely baffled by what was occurring.

Joy and bitterness fought to be the dominant expression to take residence on Oliver's face; he would get to play, but this would mark the end of his career.

"I promise on me mum's cookin' tha' I will follow the two of ya tah the end uhf the world once this game is through. Thank ya, Harry."

"Harry, he has Death Eaters after him! We need to keep him safe!" Hermione argued.

"He will be safe," said Harry simply.

For the second time that day, Hermione felt her mouth gape open and close like a beached cod.

"And just how do you propose he will be kept safe? He will be completely exposed if he is in the open."

Hermione was flummoxed. If the Death Eaters were truly out to get Oliver, their number one priority ought to be his safety; not his participation in a silly game. And yet some part of her (a rather small part, mind you) enjoyed seeing how relieved Oliver was to be allowed to play.

"We will keep him safe. You and I will be tracking his every move from the stands. And we'll get others from The Order to serve as lookouts in the crowd for suspicious behavior. It's not ideal, but it should be enough to get us through the game," said Harry. Turning to Oliver, he continued laying out his plan, "Afterwards, we'll get you to a secure location and figure out how you fit into this puzzle."

Danny's head poked out from around the corner, interrupting the trio's planning.

"Oi, Wood, cap'n says it's time for you to get on the pitch. They're about to announce the players for our fly around," Danny called. Although he spoke to Oliver, his eyes remained fixed on Hermione.

Oliver scowled.

"We'll get in contact with everyone, and get to our seats. Thanks for the tickets, Wood," said Harry, while giving the Keeper a shove towards the door leading to the pitch.

Oliver was halfway towards the exit when a tiny voice halted his movements.

"We'll be looking out for you. I promise," said Hermione.

Since his back was to her, Hermione missed the half grin that tugged at the corner of Oliver's lips. Shaking his head, he exited the locker rooms, knowing that her oath to keep him out of harm's way was her way of wishing him luck and giving her blessings. Now, it was game time.

While stepping onto the brilliant grass and hearing the deafening roar of the crowd, his one thought was that he hoped to live long enough to see the game through to its end.

_A/N: Hello guys! I really have no idea what to write here, but I feel obligated to write something. Weird, I know. Ah...helloooo. Thank you for making it this far in the story. Your reviews and alerts...hell, just seeing that visitors came to this page, keep me writing! So Thank You. Seriously. And continue reviewing because it's the right thing to do. And don't you all want to do the right thing? ;-)  
_


	8. Chapter Seven

**Chp. 7**

An icy gale swooped its way around the masses of people, twisting in a nonsensical, impish pattern. Every so often it would tickle the nose of a child or rustle the robes of one of the many fans gathered at the game. As it swirled around, snippets of conversation rode along with it on its back. A man in row seven was griping about how cold it had become. An old woman with daisy print robes was asking her grandson who a snitch was and why did he need to be caught? Arching above heads and diving between feet, the gale zig zagged its way through the stands until it reached two rather curious people, and came to an abrupt halt.

They were not curious in how they appeared; at least, not for the event they were attending. The woman had a wicked sort of beauty to her; the red and black paint striping her face only enhanced her devilish charm. The man beside her had his greasy locks hidden beneath a red and black top hat with bats flapping around the tip. Behind garish bat wing glasses, his gaze was roving across the pitch, apparently searching for someone in particular.

No, these two were not curious in dress. Outwardly, they appeared in full support of the Ballycastle Bats, who were about to play in the match. These two were curious in that, unlike the eager fans around them who were amicably chatting, they stood immobile. Not once did they appear eager for the upcoming game. Raucous laughter skittered through the stands as bets were made and noise makers were set off. A dull _stomp stomp clap _permeated throughout the crowd. Still, the two ignored the bubbling joy frothing around them.

Fortunately for them and unfortunately for the attendees, their odd presence had yet to be noticed. While the crowd remained swept up in the heady crackling of energy and excitement, Bellatrix and Snape's attention remained transfixed on the tiny figures lining up along the wall of the stands with brooms grasped in their hands.

"Do you see him?"

Bellatrix shook her head at Severus. She squinted her eyes to try and get a better view of the players.

"I can't make out who is who, they're too far off," she grumbled.

"No matter. They will be close when they play," drawled Severus.

"That is all that really matters," acknowledged Bellatrix.

Bellatrix blinked, going cross-eyed, as a brass set of omnioculars were thrust before her nose. Her eyes traced along the lines of contraption, alighting upon fingers, wrist, arm, shoulder, and then the eyes of the man standing next to her. His grin stretched across his face, cracking the paint he had slathered there.

"If'n you want, you can use these, Ma'am," he offered, "I overheard you say you couldn't see the players. Brilliant thing, these are, yeah?"

He continued to hold out the omnioculars expectantly, blue eyes twinkling until, with a sneer, Bellatrix snatched them from his hand and perched them upon her nose, ignoring him completely. The man blinked and, shoulders slumping, turned his attention back to the people on his other side. Bellatrix scanned the field, focusing on the Puddlemere team. While searching, she leaned closer to Severus in the hopes of continuing their conversation without being overheard by sickeningly helpful strangers.

"Are the others in place?" she whispered to her companion.

"I ordered them to spread out in the stands. We have about half of our numbers here."

Bellatrix raised her brows, impressed with the mass Severus had managed to bring along.

"How did you get all of them in? I thought there were no tickets left. It was a bloody nightmare, trying to get just two!"

She would never admit it aloud, but Bellatrix had come to enjoy the conversations she shared with Severus. Not that she liked the man! She downright hated him. He was just one of the few people who were not too terrified of her or her reputation to actually talk to her.

Severus smirked. "The Malfoy pocket runs deep. And when they are trying to prove their loyalty to the Dark Lord to regain their place in his inner circle, it runs even deeper."

Bellatrix cocked her head to the side and mulled over what he told her. In her opinion, Narcissus should have never married Lucius. He was a sniveling, pampered, oily bastard who cared about no one but himself. The fact that he had allowed his family to fall out of the Dark Lord's good grace was only further proof of his inadequacy. Buying his way back into the inner circle? It was almost laughable! Anyone with the means could throw their money at a problem to make it go away. But the only way to truly show loyalty was through action, through sacrificing yourself rather than your fortune. Blood was the currency of choice for the Dark Lord. Lucius would never be able to redeem Narcissus' and Draco's names. He could rot in the dank cells of Azkaban for all she cared.

A hush fell over the crowd as a static noise filled the stands. Silence thickened the air for a few anxious moments before Lee Jordan's voice cried out.

"Ladies, Gentlemen, and all you tiny tykes out there, it is with immense pleasure that I welcome you to the greatest match you will ever witness!"

His voice boomed across the stands, eliciting hoots and cries from the fans. The feverish delight that filled the air served to further intoxicate the attendees with excitement. The game was about to begin! One by one, the team's mascots were presented; _oohs _and _ahhs _from the stands sounded after each creature made its appearance. And then, it came time for the teams to be announced.

"And now for the moment you have all been waiting for. They've battled their way to the top and are ready to fight to be called the number one team. Put your hands together for THE BALLYCASTLE BATS!"

The blackboard that had been standing erect in the field flashed several times, and the words _Ballycastle Bats_ scrolled across its surface. The team as a whole leapt onto their brooms and with a _woosh, _took off into the air. They whizzed around the top of the stands, their Quidditch robes streaming behind them like the tails of a comet. Fans eagerly waved and reached out, hoping to touch one of the players they came to admire, while supporters of Puddlemere United booed. One by one, Jordan called out the player's names to have them fly to the center and wave. Bellatrix sneered at the antics of it all.

"Salazar, this is going to be a long night," she muttered.

Snape snorted.

oOo

"Hermione, if you don't stop hopping about I will glue your feet to the stands," said Harry with exasperation.

He squinted down at his friend and watched her bouncing cease. Her agitation got the better of her though, and after a few moments, she began to nervously shift from foot to foot.

Since they had arrived at their seats, the witch had been a tiny ball of nervous energy. She kept switching between gnawing on her nails and tugging at the Puddlemere United jersey she purchased on her way up the stands. She had insisted they each get one, to blend in with the crowd. Harry grinned as he recalled the horrified expression she had adopted when she discovered the vendor they came upon was only selling jersey that advertised WOOD across the back and front in bold, gold lettering. After a shocking oath and the promise of hunting down the maker of such an "atrocious scrap of fabric masquerading as clothing" she begrudgingly bought the shirt and tugged it on over her jumper.

"I can't help it Harry, I'm too nervous! What if something goes wrong? What if he gets hurt? What if we can't help him?" Her fears tumbled from her lips, causing her nerves to pick up and her hopping to increase.

Hands on her shoulder put a halt to her movements. She looked up at the stern, emerald eyes gazing at her and gave a sigh.

"You are the smartest witch I know. If anyone can keep him safe, it will be you."

She gnawed on her lip and worried her hands together.

"Oh, I hope you are right. I suppose we've faced off far worse things than this, right? I mean, it's not as if we're certain he's in danger," she rambled.

Harry tousled her hair, earning him a scowl.

"That's the spirit! Stick with denial, it keeps you calm," he jokingly said.

Hermione swatted at his hand, her temper flaring. Harry, noting the furrow appearing on her brow, adopted a serious expression.

"He's fine, Hermione."

"I know he's fine," she scoffed.

"Ron is fine, Hermione," Harry said softly.

Hermione's eyes whipped to his, the cinnamon orbs glassing over slightly. In the background, Hermione heard Lee Jordan's voice crackle across the stadium, announcing players, but payed him no heed. Her eyes searched Harry's, looking to see if he was as frightened by the loss of their friend as she was. Shaggy black hair did what it could to cover the fine lines of worry creasing Harry's brow. His once mischievous gaze held a tired solemnity. She blinked away the stinging in her eyes, having found what she had been searching for.

"We should be out looking for him, not waiting on Oliver to finish his stupid game," she said, her voice laden with guilt and bitterness.

Harry pulled her into an embrace, shielding her from the glares of the fans sharing their box that had overheard her critique of Wood.

"I know, Hermione, I know," he soothed, while patting her back, "But don't worry. Kingsley has already assigned people to figure out where they're holding him. Everyone who is not here is out looking for him. We will get him back."

She nodded into his chest before removing herself from his embrace. Squaring her shoulders, she told herself she had a job to accomplish. Hearing Lee announce Oliver's name, she spun around, her eyes finding the handsome Keeper.

He flew to the middle and flashed a toothy smile at the audience, much to the fans' delight. The setting sun beating down on him cast a rosy hue across his shaggy locks and his strong jaw. A fierce look was in his eyes and for a moment, his gaze alighted upon her and Harry. She blinked, shocked that he had been able to spot them, but then mental shook herself. He had provided them with the seats. Of course he knew where they were! His eyes trailed up and down her length, lingering on his jersey that she sported. When his eyes locked back on hers, he gave her a roguish grin and a wink.

Fighting the urge to blush, she stuck out her tongue at him. Seeing him chuckle at her response made her scowl and break their eye contact.

"Git," she muttered.

She sent up a silent plea that she would be able to keep him safe during the game. And if he happened to get injured because he refused to come with them when she told him to, she would kill him.

"If the players will get into position, we will let the game begin!" yelled out Lee.

The crowd roared its approval.

oOo

Oliver flew between the three goal posts, his eyes tracking the fast movements of the quaffle. Lee, who began announcing soon after he finished Hogwarts, only had the chance to yell out the player's names; their movements were a blur across the field. He observed his teammates effortlessly working together. It was as though they were able to read each others thoughts. Oliver grinned when Danny aimed a particularly brutal hit of the bludger towards Finbar Quigley, a beater for the Ballycastle Bats. The bludger found its mark, causing Quigley to lose his grip of his bat. The man swore loudly and spiraled down after the baton.

"Trinity's got the quaffle, who's passed it off to Blake, who threw it to Mickey. Mickey is approaching the goals. He feints left, he feints right, and WE HAVE OUR FIRST SCORE! Puddlemere's up by ten folks!"

The blackboard flashed fireworks and Oliver clapped his hands.

"Fun fact for you all, Mickey was named after a drink in the States, known as the Mickey Finn and -" Lee was cut off mid-sentence by none other than Philbert Deverill, the manager to Puddlemere United.

"LEE ANNOUNCE THE GAME!"

"My apologies, sir. And might I say, you look quite dapper in that hat."

Oliver tensed, seeing the chasers for the Ballycastle Bats approaching him. The trio weaved between each other in a V formation, quickly shuffling the quaffle between them. They dipped and dived, passing the quaffle behind their backs. Closer and closer they approached, until they were a few meters before him. And then the quaffle was airborne, hurtling towards the bottom goal. Oliver dove to make the save. Wind whistled past his ears and his heart drummed out a frantic beat. He stretched forward, determined to grasp the ball and...

"AN EXCELLENT SAVE BY OLIVER WOOD! Good one, Woodie!" cried out Lee.

With a boyish grin, Oliver loped the ball to Trinity.

Oliver zoomed back up to the top post, to get a good vantage of the game. It was too early to say for certain, but Oliver felt confident that Puddlemere would come out the victors of this match!

Oliver frowned. A humming noise was coming from somewhere, and growing louder and louder by the second. He looked around him, but only saw the crowd in the stands and the players zipping through the air. The humming continued though, buzzing loudly in his ear. Agitation began to fill Oliver. Where was the bloody noise coming from? And then something tapped persistently against his head. Startled, Oliver looked up. There, darting around his russet locks was the golden snitch.

oOo

Hermione clapped and danced about, as Oliver protected the goal. He was a brilliant Quidditch player! She was certain that the three chasers were going to score on him. Memories of the games at Hogwarts flooded her mind. How could have she forgotten just how talented he was? She grinned, lost in the excitement of the game.

The smile that stretched across her face started to fade, though. Taking its place was a worried expression. Wordlessly, she slipped the omnioculars from Harry's grasp and pulled them to her face.

"Harry, what's going on?" she asked, while she fiddled with the dials, trying to get a clear image of Oliver to show up.

"Whot's tha'?" Harry asked around a mouth filled with chocolate frogs.

"Harry, look at Oliver!"

Two pairs of eyes fixed on Oliver. The keeper's face was illuminated in a golden hue as the snitch playfully darted around his head. A wondrous expression was on his face. The two watched as he hesitatingly reached out to touch the ball. With his attention on the snitch, Oliver did not see the approach of the Ballycastle chasers, fixing to score a goal on him. Nor did he notice the bludgers weaving between the players, making their way to him alone.

"Harry, something is wrong," said Hermione, dread evident in her voice.

She dropped the omnioculars and reached for her wand. Quickly, she searched the stands, looking for anything that did not seem right. Her gaze slid over hollering fans, whipping pennants and banners, until...there! Across the stadium, on the Ballycastle Bat side, stood two figures. Both had their wands pointing up and were mumbling something she could not make out. Both stood immobile while the others around them were cheering on the game.

"HARRY!" Hermione cried out, pointing to the duo.

Harry grabbed the omnioculars and focused on the pair. He paled.

"Bellatrix and Snape, I would recognize them anywhere!" He said.

Frantically, Hermione glanced back at Oliver. The bludgers had not yet reached him, but she knew that they would soon. A syrupy cold fear slowly slid its way down her spine. They meant to hurt him, to get him out of the game! She was right, the Death Eaters were after him!

"You protect Oliver, I'll head after those two! Meet me there!" hollered Harry as he began to shove and elbow his way through the crowd.

Hermione nodded, watching his slow progress through the grumbling crowd. A few shoved him back, delaying him.

Wanting to help him, but unwilling to waste another moment, she turned her attention back to Oliver with a raised wand. He was in the same position as before, fingers hovering just over the snitch. Did he not realize the danger of the situation? Idiot! Hermione cast a shielding spell around him, just in time to save him from being attacked by the bludgers.

oOo

The clunking of the bludgers against the shield startled Oliver from his trance. Blinking, he looked around him. Circling him like vultures were the balls of the game. Relentlessly, they beat themselves against the spell, trying break through the barrier to get to his body.

All of the players stilled and Lee went silent. Everyone watched with bated breaths as some unseen force sent the balls to attack Oliver.

Bloody hell. Hermione had been right. Someone was after him.

oOo

"Damnit, Severus, someone is protecting him!" hissed Bellatrix, "Now the whole bloody crowd knows something is going on!"

Severus smacked the bats dangling from his hat out of his face in frustration. The plan had been simple; injure Oliver to make him get looked at by the medi-witches and wizards on standby. Only the medi-witches and wizards were actually Death Eaters. They would have been able to extract him easily under the guise of his needing medical attention. No one needed to be the wiser as to where he was actually going. But now...now everyone knew something was amiss.

"Well then, I suppose there is no use in hiding any longer," replied Severus slowly.

Briefly, Bellatrix met his gaze. She read in his expression what he intended, and nodded, seeing no other feasible course of action.

With a flick and a swish of his wand, every light in the stadium diminished. Every person in the stand became perfectly silent. Hesitatingly, _lumoses _were uttered, as the witches and wizards in the crowd worked to see what was going on. Tips of thousands of wands glowed in a pale white light, illuminating everyone in the ghostly luster. Fear clogged the air, making it difficult to breathe.

And then hundreds of wands were thrust up and a harsh yell was given. Snaking from the upturned wands was a thick smoke, which wound its way to the sky. Across the heavens, the ropes of smoke churned and coalesced, culminating in an angry mass. Drowning out the lit wands with its savage luminescence was a silvery skull with a snake twining out of its mouth.

Terrified screams pierced the night.

_A/N: Tadah! To spoil you all, I decided to update quickly. I know, I know, I shouldn't have. But since I did, feel free to comment! _


	9. Chapter Eight

**Chp. 8**

It was like trying to run through water. Hermione watched with a morbid fascination as a rabid panic began to overcome all those around her. Mouths opened to release screams kept caged in chests and nails dug into clothing and skin while people clawed their way through the crowd. Some fell, only to get trampled while everyone attempted to flee. And of course, there were the spells.

Hermione's eyelids fluttered and her brow creased. Was Harry okay?

Hexes exploded around the pitch in spectacular bursts of colours. One singed the side of her arm and yet she stood stationary. A body slammed into her shoulder, making her stagger to the side, but still she did not move.

Her gaze rose, peering into the sky, her eyes searching, searching...

There it was. Innocuous in theory, but in reality...

In reality that skull with the snake slithering out of its dropped jaw had come to signify _so much_ to Hermione. A childhood tainted by something so simple. How could such a silly thing hold such power over everyone? Hermione scowled.

Her eyes drifted down and to the left, locking on Oliver Wood. She could tell that he was seething; his jaw was clenched and his knuckles had gone white from how tightly he had been clutching the handle of his broom. His head whipped back and forth, trying to find a way through the balls that continued to entrap him. Luckily, her spell seemed to be holding up.

She watched as he yelled out a curse and ran both hands angrily through his hair. Hermione knew she had to get to him somehow, had to make sure he stayed safe. But her mind was scrambling, trying to process its way through the shock that seeing the Dark Mark had caused.

Suddenly his head turned towards her and his eyes locked with her own. From a distance, his heated brown gaze drilled into her and she felt her heart pick up speed. Blinking, Hermione shook her head, allowing her mind to clear and her sense return.

And then time sped up.

oOo

Oliver swore loudly as again and again the bludgers, snitch, and quaffle smashed themselves against the shield that someone – probably Hermione, now that he thought about it - had thrown up around him. The balls continued to zip in front of him like a swarm of bees, effectively blocking his view of what was happening in the stands. Even though he could not see clearly in front of him he could still hear the screams, which was worse if you asked him.

His eyes searched around the balls, vainly trying to find somewhere he could fly. He could feel frustration growing, closing his throat and choking him. Each cry the crowd let out made it harder for him to breathe. People around him were suffering because he had been too stubborn to go with Harry and Hermione when they had asked him to in the locker room. And there was nothing he could do about it! Nothing he could do to help any of those in the crowd while he was trapped by these bloody balls!

"Damnit!" He yelled as one of the bludgers came dangerously close to his face. He viciously raked through his hair in exasperation. Looking down, he noticed his hands shaking and his chest heaving. Not good. He focused on his rapid breaths, trying to get himself under control so he could think clearly and figure out a plan.

A niggling sensation disrupted his focus though, and he found himself suddenly gazing off to the right at none other than Hermione Granger. Amidst the sea of confusion and terror she alone appeared calm. People milled and ran around her in the stands. Time and time again she was jostled, but not once did she fall or break his gaze. By some miracle, no Death Eaters stood near her. While throughout the stadium duels were breaking out between Order members and the Death Eaters, in Hermione's area people were just trying to escape.

A frown pulled at his lips as he noticed how vacant her expression appeared. She looked much younger this way...almost frightened. No longer was she the ever composed and controlling little witch. Now she was a lost child in need of help and he had no way of getting to her without getting crushed or killed. Oliver felt like screaming.

But the moment didn't last. Like the rise of a curtain, Hermione shook her head and the vulnerability was gone, replaced once more with the Hermione he knew. He let out a breathe of relief he had not realized he had been holding. He could deal with this Hermione.

Oliver's brow furrowed as he considered the predicament in which he found himself. He begrudgingly admitted that Hermione and Harry had been right; someone was after him. He needed to get to the duo somehow, but to do that he needed to get through the balls. The only problem was he was at a loss as to how that could be accomplished. Oliver sighed.

And that's when it struck him. The question was whether or not it would work...his timing had to be just right. He patted down his robes, searching for his wand while considering just how painful it would be to be struck by all of the balls at once if his theory did not follow through in practice.

"None of tha', just geht yer wand an' do it No thenkin'." he muttered to himself.

This had to work because really, he already spent too much time in the infirmary as it was. Finding and extracting his wand, Oliver stuck a finger in the air, swooped it in a circle and then drew that finger across his throat, gesturing to Hermione to let down the shield.

She shook her head no.

Oliver felt his brow pull up. Again he made the gesture, his movements slow and precise, tension in his frame and again Hermione shook her head no. Oliver growled at the stubborn, uncomplying witch and gestured one final time. At the end he stabbed his finger towards the ground, indicating to her to do it _now. _He watched as her arms began to flail emphatically, her pointer finger punching the air in front of her as she, no doubt, yelled at him from the stands. Oliver snorted, grateful for the distance that prevented him from hearing a single word of her irate (and rather animated) lecture.

Once she finished (with her hands indicating that she would be choking him in the near future) he gave her a solemn nod, assuring her that he understood completely. He watched her frame stiffen and almost dismissively she turned her head from him and lifted her wand, preparing to drop the shield. Oliver gave her profile an exaggerated salute, sent up a silent prayer to whatever deities were listening, and as Hermione dropped the shield he promptly proceeded to dive off of his broom and hurl towards to ground.

oOo

"-YOUR BLOODY FUNERAL. And if you do die, I will personally turn myself over to Voldemort and request his tutelage to learn all manner of dark arts with the intention of reanimating your ungrateful, impolitic corpse only to have the personal pleasure of killing you, but this time with my bare hands! And, by the by, there had better be a plan!"

With a huff, Hermione proceeded to lower the barrier that was the only thing preventing Oliver from being bludgeoned to death.

Hermione felt her eyebrows shoot up and her jaw drop as she watched Oliver jump off his broom. She had let the shield down like he wanted, expecting him to have some sort of plan. This...this was not a plan. This was pure idiocy!

She watched in horror as Oliver flicked his wand and yelled out some spell while his body free fell downwards. She let out a breath; surely he was trying to cast something for him to land on. Hermione felt her heart drop when nothing happened. She made to conjure a mattress for him, but movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention. She turned just in time to see a Death Eater rushing towards her, wand extended.

Growling at the Death Eater's ill timing she rapidly sent out a stinging hex. With ease, the Death Eater headed her way side-stepped her spell. From beneath the mask she heard a deep, masculine chuckle at her failed attack.

Hermione felt her palms become damp with sweat. Oliver was plunging to the ground – presumably towards his death – and this bloody Death Eater was taking up precious moments of her time.

Hermione sensed rather than heard the Death Eater send out a cruccio and she ducked and rolled. The curse soared over her head, missing her by millimeters. Scrambling to her feet, she raised her wand to cast an petrificus totalus when Oliver appeared in front of her, clutching a heavy, open chest against him and grinning like a fool.

Alarm etched across her features, Hermione opened her mouth to shout a warning to Oliver, but before she could he spun and tossed the chest at the Death Eater. Startled, the Death Eater dropped his wand and caught the chest. Oliver then grabbed their attacker by the shoulders of his robe, twisted him around, and ducked behind him just as the bludgers, snitch, and quaffle arrived. The balls, having been headed to where Oliver stood just moments before, slammed into the chest the Death Eater was holding. The force caused the lid of the chest to jolt shut and made the Death Eater stumble backwards. With a resounding _snap snap_, Oliver, in one fluid movement, locked the clasps on the chest and then slammed his fist into the side of the Death Eater's head. Like a rag-doll, the man went limp and crumpled at the Keeper's feet.

Hermione blinked down at the unconscious Death Eater, momentarily speechless before ire overcame her. She turned to Oliver with a glare, her cinnamon eyes flashing.

"You bloody prat! I was worried senseless that you were going to die and then you just pop up smiling? What were you thinking!" She shouted, marching up to the grinning Keeper with a waggling finger.

Oliver looked down at her with wry amusement, causing her frown to deepen.

"I'm serious, Oliver!" she said with a stamp of her foot.

Oliver arched an eyebrow at her and cocked his head to the side and a deep flush to spread across her face in response. Pursing her lips, she crossed her arms over her chest and looked away, refusing to meet his eyes. The condescending bastard!

"Hermione, I was nehver ehn any real danger," he chuckled.

She scoffed and rolled her eyes at his very obvious lie, causing his grin to deepen, much to Hermione's annoyance.

She scowled as people jostled by her, fleeing the stadium. Every so often an errant spell would zip nearby, but as far as Hermione could tell, their area was thinning out. The only thing left to do was get to Harry.

Hermione's stomach dropped. Harry! How could have she forgotten about him? She worried her lip between her teeth as she recalled her friend racing off to get to Bellatrix and Snape. Had he gotten to them? Was he alright? Hermione felt the blood drain from her face as she began to wonder whether or not Harry had been captured like Ron.

Hermione spun around, finally taking in all that surrounded her. She stiffened at what she saw. Bodies dribbled down the stands, some having died from being crushed in the ensuing panic while others were murdered by Death Eaters. Screams and yells mingled in the crisp night air while Order members and Death Eaters dueled. A dazzling firework display of spells and charms were being hurled at random, unprejudiced in who they took as their victim. The _pop pop pop_ of disapparations matched the tempo of her throbbing heartbeat. Licking her chapped lips, Hermione spun to Oliver, panic in her eyes.

"Follow me! We have to get to Harry," ordered Hermione, all traces of her earlier anger vanished.

And with that, Hermione spun on her heel and hurried off, fully expecting Oliver to heed her orders without question. Oliver rolled his eyes and jogged to catch up.

oOo

Oliver alternated between scanning around the stadium and watching Hermione's back, trying to keep up and keep them safe until they reached Harry. There was no sign of his old seeker anywhere, but there were the remnants of the Death Eaters' victims clogging the stadium. They picked their way between victim after victim in stony silence, neither of them wanting to remark on the carnage that lay at their feet. A prickle, starting at the nape of his neck and traveling down the length of his spine began as Oliver realized that the Death Eaters were winning this battle.

Oliver ran into Hermione's outstretched arm. Glancing down at her, he noticed she had a finger raised to her lips. He sent her a questioning look as she began to hunker down, taking him with her. She tilted her head to the side, indicating a pair of Death Eaters up ahead. They had yet to notice him and Hermione; they were too busy shuffling through the dead, searching for something or someone.

"Get down and pretend to be dead," Hermione hissed at him.

Oliver nodded and laid down on his stomach. He draped his arm over his head, trying to look like a splayed victim while hiding his identity. He felt Hermione spread out beside him, but did not dare glance over to her, fearing that his movements would attract the attention of the approaching figures. He could not see them, but he could hear their quiet steps getting closer and closer to where they lay hidden. Cool, syrupy terror began to sluggishly slither its way down his spine, chilling him and sending his heartbeat off cantering.

"Oi, do you see Wood a'tall?" A gruff voice called out.

Oliver grimaced. They were looking for him!

"No' yet, but I suspect someone'll find him soon." The other responded.

He could hear thunking noises followed by a brief pause and then footsteps. This pattern kept repeating as the men slowly flipped and prodded bodies, trying to locate him.

"Do they have any idea where he went," asked the first one, louder now.

Oliver swallowed hard. His heartbeat was racing, crashing wildly against his ribcage. He vainly tried to stifle his heavy breathing, willing his body to appear dead. The night wind licked at the perspiration soaking his body. He had to bite down hard on his bottom lip while he tried to fight off the shivers that threatened to overtake him.

"We all lost track of him when he dove off of his broom. Strange how he accio'd the ball case, yeah? But well over half of us are searching through the woods around the pitch now. Believe you me we'll find him soon enough!"

_Thunk, step, step._

"Why do you think the Dark Lord wants him alive?"

Now the men were only a few meters from where Hermione and he lay. He sensed the witch stiffening as the men began inspecting the bodies that lie closest to the duo. Slowly, Oliver shifted his weight to the left, trying to free his wand.

_Thunk, step, step._

What were they going to do? Did Hermione have a plan? How were they going to escape?

"Dunno. Bet he'd be right mad if one of these poor blokes turned out to be him, yeah?"

_Thunk, step, step_.

Oliver had never experienced such anxiety and fear. He could taste blood as he bit through the flesh of his lip. Slowly, he slipped his arm down a hair so he had a sliver to peak through. He could see two pairs of boots standing near a body not two meters from them now. Their time was running out. They needed to do something and fast.

"Well if we find him, I'm not going to be the one to tell him Wood's dead."

He watched their feet turn away from the body and head towards him. Oliver bit back a groan, willing them to turn around, to skip over him. Each approaching step made his skittering heart skip a beat. Closer and closer they came until they stopped right before his prone form, their scuffed black boots centimeters from his face. He saw their pants crease as they bent over to flip him onto his back. Time had officially run out.

"RICTUSEMPRA! RICTUSEMPRA!"

Oliver shot to his feet at the sound of Hermione's voice. The witch had sprang up when the men had their backs to her. The two men collapsed in a heap, rolling around on the ground in front of Hermione and him. Before he could do anything, the witch had him by the cuff of his shirt and was dragging him towards a stairwell.

The pair dashed down the stairs, taking them two at a time. Adrenaline was coursing through his body as they whipped around the corner to descend the next flight.

"A tecklin' charm?" He gasped out while they hastily made their descent.

They pushed and shoved their way between the people still trying to make their escape.

"It was the first thing that popped into my head!" Shouted Hermione between breaths.

"Ya fight dehrty, Ms. Granger," Oliver shouted back at Hermione with a wink.

Oliver smiled at the giggle his comment produced.

Oliver took the lead, being more familiar with the layout of the stadium than Hermione. He mentally calculated in his head how many more flights they had to go before they reached ground level; they were halfway there.

"There he is! And he has the Granger girl with him!"

Oliver pumped his legs faster, dragging Hermione behind him at a reckless speed. He focused on keeping them from tripping while she haphazardly fired spell after spell over her shoulders.

They skidded around another corner, banging roughly against the metal banister, only to be greeted by a group of four Death Eaters ascending the staircase. Oliver swore as the group noticed them and began firing spells at them. His instincts kicked in and he cast a quick shield around them. Jaw clenched and mind racing he began to retreat, pushing Hermione back up the stairs.

"We can't go this way, Wood! They'll catch us!"

Chest heaving and head whipping from side to side, Oliver tried to figure out where he could take them while Hermione skillfully held the group of Death Eaters off. He could take them onto the stadium level they were at now, but they would only be met with more Death Eaters. He was too distracted to successfully apparate them away; he didn't want to risk hurting Hermione. The stairs were clearly off limits. And then his gaze alighted on the open window at the end of the hall to his left.

"What are yer though's ahn flyin'?" He shouted at Hermione over the hissing sounds of the spells being shot at them. He quickly fired down some freezing and body binding charms at the Death Eaters.

"I would rather die a thousand deaths!" She yelled back at him.

He gave her a roguish smirk.

"Aye, I was hopin' you'd say tha' lassie," he said, his burr making his words come out as more of a growl.

Before Hermione had a chance to respond, she was thrown over his shoulder and he was racing towards the window.

"WOOD! IF WE LIVE THROUGH THIS YOU WILL BE WISHING YOU HAD BEEN CAUGHT BY VOLDEMORT!"

Hermione's screams drowned out his _accio_.

oOo

Hermione's heart was in her throat as she clung to Oliver, willing him not to drop her as they tumbled out the window into the night. Her hands fisted into his shirt and screams tore out of her throat. Glancing over, between the strands of her hair whipping into her eyes she saw the ground rapidly approaching.

"What exactly is your plan here?" She shouted, terrified.

That is when she saw them; zipping towards Oliver and her were two broomsticks. Tears began to prickle in her eyes and slide across her temples as the wind tore at her face.

"They're not going to reach us in time you oaf!" Hermione yelled.

"Och, they will," Oliver yelled back.

Hermione calculated that they didn't have long before crashing into the ground.

"No they won't! I'm going to die here with you tonight. I will be remembered not as the brightest witch to walk through Hogwarts, but as the idiot who allowed a stupid quidditch player to toss her out the window!" She cried in dismay.

Hermione buried her head against his back and her eyes clenched shut. She felt the rumble of his chuckle against her, amused at her behavior. Hermione muttered angrily into his back in response.

"Now Ms. Granger, tha's no' a verra nice thing to say! Ahn It's reahlly no' tha' bad. You should open yer eyes ahn' look ahround ye."

"Are you daft?"

That was when she noticed they were no longer in free fall. At some point between her screams and her swears, Oliver had managed to snag one of the brooms and pull them safely on top. They were currently hovering in mid-air. That was also when she realized the only thing keeping her from finishing the descent to her death was Oliver and a very tiny stick of wood. With a yelp, Hermione tightly wrapped her arms around Oliver's neck.

"Oi, lass, do ya thenk ye could loosen up ah bit? I'm havin' dehficulties breathin,'" Oliver gasped.

Hermione begrudgingly obliged, concluding that his continued breathing was necessary for the general success of their night escape.

"Alrigh' listen. I cast a disillusionment ahround us. Now I'm gonna slowly move ya ohver tah the other broom. Thenk you kan manage?" Oliver asked softly, as though her were talking to a cornered animal, his hand running up and down her back soothingly.

Hermione muttered incoherently into Oliver's shoulder.

"Wha' was tha'?"

"I can't fly," she whispered softly. Once again she felt he chest rumble as he chuckled at her.

"Och, Hermione, I'm sure yer a fine flyer."

Hermione lifted her head off of his shoulder.

"No, Oliver, you don't understand. I _can't _fly. I don't know how!"

Hermione could feel her face flush with embarrassment at her confession. Oliver just blinked at her, a puzzled expression flickering over his face.

"But yer a witch. Ya went tah Hogwarts. Didntcha learn?" He asked, clearly confused.

Hermione felt her face get even hotter. Turning away from Oliver, she looked at the area around the pitch. From this height, she could see little dots of light wandering all around, weaving between the trees of the forest and pacing around the stadium. Probably the Death Eaters searching for them. Hermione sighed. They had to get to safety. They had to figure out what happened to Harry. And they had to find a way to rescue Ron. This was the first time in a long time that she was without the boys and she felt completely lost on her own.

"No I didn't, okay? I didn't learn," she grumbled, "It was the one class I wasn't good at."

Oliver laughed heartily at that. Hermione scowled at the ground, refusing to look at Oliver.

"Now tha's rich! The great Hermione? No' good aht school?"

Hermione stiffened at his words, feeling the beginnings of a violent anger flicker inside of her. She realized that he was just teasing her, but her nerves were frayed. All of the night's emotions were finally catching up with her; her fear and worry over Ron and Harry, her multiple near death experiences, her anxiety over Oliver possibly having fallen to his death, and then to top it all off, being thrown out a window and onto a broom were all manifesting itself in a very unpleasant manner. Had she taken a step back and thought about the events, she would have come to the conclusion that, given the circumstances, the two were bloody lucky to be alive. However she was beyond stepping back and thinking rationally.

"I will have you know that I was spectacular at school; a far cry better than you, at the very least," she snapped. "But I suppose that wouldn't be a hard thing to achieve. Everyone knows that the one thing you were ever good at is flying, which doesn't really amount to much, does it? Now why don't you do that one thing and get us down from this stupid stick and put us somewhere safe!"

Abruptly Oliver stopped laughing, all signs of mirth and joking gone. Hermione yelped as he hands wrapped around her waist, picking her up and placing her roughly onto the broom beside him. Nervously she clutched to the polished wood of the broom, unsure as to what was happening. She glanced over at Oliver, but could read nothing in his expression. His lips were pressed into a firm line and his eyes were hard and cold. Wordlessly, he held onto her broom and flew them into the woods, ignoring her cries of protest. He quickly entered the forest, intentionally going faster than usual, zipping wildly between trees until the forest became too dense and he had to lower them to the ground.

Before she could open her mouth to speak, Oliver had spun on her. Anger rolled off of him in thick waves, making the air around them crackle with energy.

"You are the most frustratin', ungrahteful little witch I have ehver meht! You should be bloody thankin' me fer ghettin' us out uhf there alive!"

"Thanking you?" Hermione bit out, incredulity lacing her voice. "You almost got us killed! None of this, and I do stress NONE, would have happened had you listened to me in the first place! All of this could have been prevented, Wood, had you and Harry listened to me! How many times do I have to be right until you all listen to me!"

Hermione's words caused Wood to stagger back. She saw pain flash across his face, but then he blinked it away. His expression became cold and hard once more and his breathing became erratic as he continued his advance. Hermione blindly stumbled backwards, gaping at the intensity of Oliver's fury. His chocolate coloured eyes darkened and his head dipped down. She could see a tick forming in his strong jaw, keeping time with his anger.

"Nay Hermione. Ever since ya showed up, ehverythin' has gone tah hell. Ahn the worst pahrt is tha' you dohn' ehven care. Or have the decency tah apologize fer how you treat those ahround you, as though you were so superior."

Hermione felt bark bite into her back through her jumper and snag errant strands of her hair as she backed into a tree. Refusing to be bullied, she scowled up at Oliver, having to tilt her head back to meet his gaze head on.

"Back aht school, ehveryone would complain abou' how overbearin' and self-righteous you were, but I _ahlways_ stood up fer ya. Now I know they were right awl ahlong. Bein' ahround ya is a chore, lassie. I'm surprised ye have friends a'tall. Quite frahnkly, I thenk Ron an' Harry only stayed friends with you out of either pity or because they were usin' ya tah geht good grades," he bit out.

Hermione blinked rapidly at his words as he played on a lifetime of insecurities. His tongue cut through her, exposing every vulnerability she had. It had always been hard for her to make friends. She had always been the outcast in both the muggle and wizarding world. One because she was slightly different and the other because she was not a pure-blood. So she buried herself in her books and studies, trying to prove herself worthy of her magic to both her family and her peers. It was not that she thought of herself as superior, she was just trying to show people that she belonged. All she wanted was to belong.

Hermione's jaw worked and tears began to fill her eyes. A startled look overcame Oliver at the sight of her tears. His head bowed and he ran a hand through his hair.

"Merlin, Hermione, I dinnae mean -" Oliver began, but then cut of mid sentence, his hand shooting out to cover Hermione's lips.

She gasped beneath his hand as he pushed himself against her. Affronted, she opened her mouth to protest, but then she heard the snapping of a twig from up ahead. Hermione stiffened, realizing that they were no longer alone in this part of the woods.

Hermione and Oliver stared silently at one another, their argument dissolving. She knew the disillusionment charm was still on them; so long as they stood still and kept quiet, no one should notice their presence.

Hermione tried to tug her wrists free, but his calloused hands squeezed them together more tightly and he shook his head no; he obviously didn't trust her enough to let her go. Hermione wiggled, trying once more to break free of his hold but still Oliver held her tight, his jaw clenching and his eyes darkening. He leaned forward, his lips finding her ear.

"Stop yer squirmin' Hermione, they'll hear us," he whispered softly.

Frustrated, she did the only thing she could think of to get him to release her; she nipped at his fingertips. At her bite, he sucked in a breath and pulled his hand away, eyebrows shooting up and lips twitching in amusement. Hermione's breathing hitched when placed his now free hand on the tree beside her head, boxing her in. His head dipped towards hers and his gaze scorched her as his eyes trailed down her face to her mouth. Tension rolled off him in heady waves. She felt her heart pick up and she nervously licked her lips.

Back when they were both in school, girls were always fawning over Oliver. She never quite understood why. Granted, he had a tall, athletic frame with broad shoulders and a masculine jaw. And she supposed that that his brown eyes were always sparkling mischievously and his hair...Hermione bit down on her lip as she wondered what it would feel like to run her fingers through his shaggy locks. So, yes, he was attractive...if you liked that sort of thing. But to be honest, he had never been her type. Hermione would choose intelligence and humor over looks and athleticism any day. Besides, back in school she had been interested in Ron. But standing here in the forest now, adrenaline coursing through her body from their argument and the nearby Death Eaters, she had to admit those girls had been right. Oliver Wood was bloody gorgeous.

More snaps sounded and she thought she could make out voices in the distance, startling her from her very blatant appraisal of the man before her. She would have yelped had it not been for Oliver quietly whispering a shushing noise in her ear, his lips brushing against the sensitive shell. Hermione gulped as his nose lightly grazed along her temple and he inhaled deeply. At her shivers, he shifted forward slightly, offering her more warmth. Not that she needed it; she already felt as though she were on fire.

They stood like that for what seemed like hours, bodies brushing as they strained their senses to pick up any noise that would indicate the Death Eaters had found them. After long, tense moments of silence, Hermione spoke up.

"I think they've gone," she whispered, her voice hoarse.

And then he quickly released her and stepped back, as though he could not get away from her fast enough. Hermione's heart dropped and her ears began to turn red. She shook her head, angry at herself. Did she think he was actually attracted to her? He had just finished pointing out how completely unappealing she was. She was being foolish. Completely flustered and a little wounded at the sudden loss of contact, Hermione gave Oliver a disdainful look.

He just smirked in response.

"Next time just say be quiet and I will!" She snapped sullenly.

"Somehow I doubt tha' lassie," He snorted.

"There they are!"

The shout came from behind Oliver and he swore. This whole night had been a complete and utter disaster. Just when they thought they were safe...

She could hear the pounding of feet coming from all directions, moving to surround them. Hermione fumbled for her wand and spun in a circle, arm outstretched, unsure from where the first attacker would appear. The pounding feet became louder and Hermione thought that this would be the end of their escape, but then everything faded away to black as Oliver grasped her hand and turned on the spot.

In a moment they were away from the woods, standing side-by-side next to a brown leather couch.

Hermione blinked as she took in their surroundings. Over to the side was a white washed table. Hung high on the wall was that outrageous clock. And of course, there was the telli.

As realization as to their location dawned on Hermione, she began to slowly clap. They were in Oliver's flat.

"Brilliant, Oliver. Really perfect. Why, they'll never think to look for us here." she said dryly.

_Help me out here folks! Review. This was a difficult chapter to write. _


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